


what a difference of the rushing out (darling, i'll always be around)

by mediwitch3



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Neil Hargrove Being an Asshole, Self Confidence Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slurs, conversion camps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 06:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20385496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediwitch3/pseuds/mediwitch3
Summary: Billy transfers to a new university after the worst summer of his life.*Explicit rating for chapter four only*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @queenginnys on tumblr.
> 
> This is based off the fic Shake Me Down by AGreatperhaps. The basic skeleton is the same but they are different fics! If you like Louis/Harry you should check hers out, it's one of my favorite stories of all time.
> 
> Shoutout to my best friend abby for being my cheerleader and forcing me to finish this!!
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not catholic! I have never been to a conversion camp! I am bi and I was the president of my school's LGBT organization. Please keep comments kind.

The room is bare. Billy stands at the threshold, holding a trash bag full of clothes as he breathes deeply through his nose. He jolts into action at the sound of footsteps coming up behind him; he turns to see Susan, Max, and his father arriving, a tall, dark-skinned boy wearing a campus move-in day t-shirt pushing a trolley piled with his things. His father steps up beside him silently, turning to eye the room critically. Max shoves her way between them to look around too, her wild red hair spilling over her shoulders as she twists around. He looks down at her, eyebrow raised.

“Well?” He asks quietly. The bare walls of the room make him feel like he needs to be quiet. Max shrugs.

“It’s fine, I guess,” she tells him, “you need to put something on the walls, they’re boring.”

“He’ll do no such thing,” his father intones, stepping forward and nodding to the boy behind them as he takes the trolley from him. 

“Let us know if you need anything else!” The boy chirps, sending a friendly wave towards Billy and Max, before turning back towards the stairs and walking away. Billy’s father watches him go. When he disappears into the stairwell, Neil turns back to face Billy, who still hasn’t moved from the doorway.

“The only thing you will put on these walls is your cross,” he tells Billy sternly, “none of those disgusting whores in bikinis you had at home.”

Billy swallows around a lump in his throat, nodding as he avoids everyone’s eyes. 

“Would you like help unpacking, Billy?” Susan’s voice is quiet in the empty hall. Neil turns to face her instead of his son. 

“He’s a big boy, Susan,” he says calmly, “I’m sure he can handle unpacking alone. We should get going, I don’t want to get home too late.”

Susan nods, reaching down to dig her car keys out of her bag.

“We can’t even stay for dinner?” Max asks loudly. Billy winces. 

“No, Maxine,” Neil tells her, still not looking at his son. He offers no other explanation, turning to reach for his wife and guide her down the hall without so much as a goodbye. Max turns back to face Billy, her face pinched petulantly.

“Max,” he murmurs, “just go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

She contorts her face again, into a glare, her blue eyes shining. She stares him down for a moment, before she launches forward to wrap him in a tight hug. He sighs, patting her awkwardly on the back until she draws back again.

“Bye, Billy,” she says. And then she’s gone, and Billy is alone again in an empty room.

He dumps his bag on the bed and slumps next to it, his heart stamping an unsteady rhythm in his chest. He should unpack. His hand creeps down to the rubber band at his wrist, snapping harshly until he feels calm again.

It doesn’t take him long to put everything away. He didn’t have much to begin with, and it looks like less in the drawers of the plain dresser at the foot of his bed. He arranges his shampoos in the adjoining bathroom, turning them all so that the labels face out, standing like little soldiers in the back corner of the shower stall. When he’s finished, he surveys the room from his doorway; it doesn’t look any different than before, save his sheets on the bed. After a moment, he throws on the worn grey sweatshirt he’s been attached to since he got back from camp. He grabs his keys, too, and pats his pocket to make sure his phone is still there. He slams the door shut as he exits, locking, and relocking, and relocking again.

He shoves his hair out of his face and sets out to find the on campus gym. Outside, it’s warm. He can feel the sweat starting to gather at his temples, but he doesn’t shove his sleeves up just yet. He shoves his hands deeper into his kangaroo pouch, turning his keys on the ring as he walks. He’s not looking where he’s going, avoiding eye contact with the people around him on the sidewalk, and as he turns the corner he runs headlong into a warm body. He stumbles backwards, and a hand reaches out to wrap around his arm, keeping him from falling. He looks up, meeting the dark brown eyes of the boy in front of him. 

“Are you okay?” The other boy’s voice is soft and sweet, a smile tugging apologetically at the corners of his full mouth. Billy blinks, a hot fear expanding in his chest, making it harder to breathe. He wrenches his arm out of the other boy’s hand, his own lips curling into a harsh snarl.

“Watch where you’re going,” his voice is too loud to his own ears, and his heart beats louder as the other boy’s eyes widen. He shoves past him, knocking his shoulder into the other boy’s and watching as his dark hair flops over his forehead. He turns once more, panic choking him. “And keep your hands to yourself.”

He doesn’t look back as he hurries away, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to forget the interaction ever happened. When he does finally reach the gym, he’s sweating through his sweatshirt, and his heart is still beating too hard. At the counter, a bored student worker asks for his school ID, and then swipes him through without a second glance. He steps through the turnstiles to look around, eyeing the weights on the left and the cardio machines on the right. 

Upstairs, he can see people running around a track through the hole in the second level. He decides running in circles may help ease the itch under his skin, his hands still shaking a bit as he climbs the stairs. He reaches the top, waiting as two girls in sports bras and gym shorts run past, chattering, before he starts his own jog. His sweatpants swish between his knees, the sweat continuing to gather in dark spots over his shoulders and back.

He runs until he can’t anymore, stumbling to the side of the track to lean against the rail and catch his breath. His hands aren’t shaking anymore, and though his heart is still pounding, it’s not from panic. He feels calm as he sucks in breath after burning breath, his sweaty hair sticking to his neck in dark blond curls. Once he can breathe normally again, he moves carefully back downstairs, beelining for the water fountain next to the locker room. He sucks down large gulps, breathing heavily through his nose and wishing he had brought a change of clothes, his cooling sweat starting to feel sticky and gross. He stands back up straight, tilting his head back and swiping a hand through the sweat and water drying at his throat. 

He doesn’t look at anyone as he leaves. The air outside is slightly cooler than before, the sun setting behind the gym and the sky in front bruising purple as the night creeps in. The walk back to his dorm is quiet, a few stragglers heading towards the dining hall as the street lamps start coming on around him. He keeps his eyes up this time, but doesn’t look at anyone’s face. 

—

When he wakes up in the morning, he’s starving. He hadn’t bothered going for dinner last night, not wanting to brave the dining hall after the incident on the quad earlier. He slaps a hand over the alarm on his phone, the screen cheerfully informing him that six am has come and gone. 

He rolls over, his bare feet touching the cold floor as he stands and stretches. He passes a hand over his bare chest, counting his ribs and pressing gently to the fading bruises that mottle his skin. The alarm blares again, and he winces, reaching to unplug his phone and turn off the rest of them. He tucks his phone into the pocket of his sweat pants, padding into the bathroom through the door by his desk. 

He stares a moment in the mirror, eyeing the green and yellow bruises he had been touching earlier, and the scar that runs underneath them, a stark white line curling from his sternum around to his back. He takes a deep breath, turning his back on his reflection and shucking his pants without looking at himself. In the shower, he turns the water hot, his skin pinking under it as it steams around him. He shoves his head under the stream, letting his hair soak and his mouth fill with water; he wishes he could drown in it.

He washes methodically, touch light and perfunctory, and avoids his cock, hanging heavy between his legs. He passes a hand through his long hair, pulling the knots apart with his fingers and watching the remnants of the conditioner trail down his wrist.

Stepping out onto the mat outside the shower door, he reaches for the white towel he had hung yesterday on the bar on the back of the bathroom door. He dries himself roughly, then wraps the towel around his waist, leaning down to grab his dirty clothes and his phone so he can get dressed again in his room. By 6:37am, he’s dressed, in a starched white button-down and pressed khakis. He tugs at the sleeves, wishing he could put his sweatshirt on over the shirt but knowing his father would disapprove. He rolls his shoulders back, cracking his neck as he goes in an attempt to settle the restless feeling under his skin. He pulls the sheets back up on the bed, tucking them in tightly, then hangs his wet towel neatly back over the bar in the bathroom. 

As he goes out the door, keys in hand, he pats his pocket to make sure his phone is still there. Then he shuts the door, locking, and relocking, and relocking again. 

—

He looks up at the doors of the church, turning the keys around the ring as people pass him. He counts down from ten, knowing he should enter soon if he wants a seat. Finally, when he gets to one, he breathes in deep and climbs the large, stone steps. Inside, a girl with auburn hair and a lavender blouse is handing out programs. She smiles brightly at him as he steps up. 

“Hi,” she chirps, her teeth bright white as she grins up at him, “I’m Carol! I’m the president of the Catholic Student Union, you should totally join us for our meeting on Wednesday!”

“Billy,” he blurts, staring at her, stunned, as she shoves a program with a flier into his limp hands. He grasps at it, glancing down before giving her a tight smile and hurrying past her into the church. He breathes a deep sigh of relief as he takes a seat in the last pew, dumping the program on the seat next to him. He closes his eyes and breathes as he waits for mass to start.

Billy still feels restless when mass is over, but he waits in his seat as the other students file out, looking around at the plain architecture of the campus chapel. He startles at the thump of someone sitting next to him, turning to look at Carol as she smiles over at him.

“So are you a freshman then? I haven't seen you before.” She asks cheerfully, leaning an elbow on the back of his row. He swallows, his hand sneaking under his sleeve to snap the rubber band that’s always there.

“Um, no,” he tells her, “I transferred this year from community, I’m a junior.”

“Wow!” She says, her voice high and bright, “that’s cool! You should definitely come to our meeting on Wednesday, it’ll be a lot easier to make friends if you come hang out with us outside of mass.”

“Um, I’ll think about it,” he smiles tightly at her again, knowing he’d rather be anywhere else. She smiles back at him, snapping her gum.

“Are you joining any other clubs?” she leans forward, bringing one knee up onto the pew. In his head, he begs her to get the hint.

“I don’t know yet,” he says, hoping if he gives her something she’ll leave him alone, “I have a job at student services, so I don’t know how much time I’ll have.”

She nods, her thick hair pouring over shoulder. “That’s cool. If you ever want to get lunch or something, you should let me know! Give me your phone, I’ll put my number in.”

Billy struggles for a moment, deciding if he really wants her number or if he just wants her to go away. Finally, he sighs, lifting his hips so he can pull out his phone and hand it to her, unlocked and open to contacts. She fiddles with it for a second, then hands it back with a smile.

“I also put my boyfriend’s number in, in case you want a gym buddy,” she pats his shoulder as though answering his unasked question, “I have to go, my sorority is having a welcome back breakfast, but you should totally text me! See you later, Billy!”

He watches her flounce out the doors, realizing they’re the last ones in the building. Her footsteps echo and then stop, and he slumps backwards, the tension easing out of his shoulders. He waits a minute, trying to get his wits back, before he gets up and leaves too. 

Now past eight am, the sun is bright above him, the air just starting to warm up. His hair flutters at his shoulders as he walks, a light breeze promising a cooler day than yesterday. This early on a Sunday, not many people are out and about; those who are are stumbling blearily towards the dining hall or the gym. Billy thinks he might do the same, his hunger coming back as the smell of French toast wafts towards him from the dining hall. 

He swipes in, giving a strained smile to the woman manning the register, and then heads towards the grill at the back. Sundays were the only days at home where he was allowed to eat anything other than cereal for breakfast, his father’s stern gaze watching him as he poured out a nice, healthy bowl of bran. Susan insisted on pancakes on Sundays, and Neil, despite usually keeping control of his son with an iron fist, allowed it for the sake of his wife. If he gave a little slack the dogs forgot they were on a leash. 

He blinks the thoughts away, putting two slices of French toast on his plate and then taking his tray towards the drinks and condiments. He dumps some syrup over them, watching as the sticky liquid pools and drips and soaks the bread on his plate. He hesitates as he reaches for a mug, knowing his father never let him drink coffee at home. After struggling with himself for a moment, he reaches for a glass instead, pressing the button and watching orange juice fill it in a rush.

He sits by himself and eats quickly, the hall around him still fairly quiet. He doesn't mind it; it’s nice to eat without having comments made about it. When he finishes, he busses his tray, feeling a little better as he steps into the early morning light. In his pocket, he turns the keys on his ring around and around the whole way back to his dorm.

—

“You said _you_ were gonna call _me_!” Max’s voice is shrill on the other end of the line, and Billy hastens to turn the volume down a few notches before responding.

“I went to the gym last night and forgot,” he tells her, rolling his eyes. Max is the only one who makes him feel normal anymore. “I went to mass this morning.”

“Oh,” he can hear the hesitation as he waits for her response, “how did it go?”

“Met a girl,” he says, “she gave me her number.”

“I’ll tell Neil,” she answers, and he breathes a deep sigh of relief, “are you gonna call her?”

“No,” he’s too hasty to reply, “she has a boyfriend. Don’t tell him that.”

“I won’t,” she assures him. It’s quiet for a moment, and he listens to her breathe.

“Billy,” she starts again, her voice much softer than before, “are you okay?”

He doesn’t think he can say no.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks instead. She huffs and the line crackles with it. He can hear her shift around on her bed.

“A lot of reasons, but you don’t have to tell me.” 

“I have to go, Max.” He wants this conversation to be over. Doesn’t want to talk about camp, doesn’t want to talk around it either.

“Fine,” she sighs, “have fun in class tomorrow. Text me after your shift?”

“Yea, I will,” he forces his voice to steady, remembering that he doesn’t want her to be upset with him, doesn’t want to alienate the only person who actually cares about him. He waits until she says good-bye and mumbles it back, then hangs up and flops backwards onto his bed. 

It’s only two in the afternoon, and though he’d cut off his conversation with Max, he doesn’t have anything else to do until four. After staring at the ceiling for a few more minutes, he gets up and wanders over to the front of the dresser. He changes out of his church clothes and into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

He grabs his sweatshirt off the back of his desk chair, running it through his hands to feel the soft, worn fabric. He sighs, reluctantly putting it back on his chair. He wants to wear it to work tonight, he can’t go get it all sweaty now. He rummages through his closet for a moment, pulling out a different sweatshirt, this one tighter around his biceps in a way that once would have pleased him. Now it just makes him nauseous. He swallows around it, debating the pros and cons of bare arms versus a tight shirt.

Finally, he makes his way out of his room, wearing the too-tight sweatshirt. He pats his pocket for his phone, then closes the door tightly. He locks, and relocks, and relocks again. 

The gym is quiet when he arrives, 2pm clearly not a peak time. He swipes in and heads straight for the weights. As he pulls and pushes he feels the stretch of the sweatshirt around his arms and shoulders. The fabric grows damp quickly as he sweats, and it feels claustrophobic the more it sticks to him. He works, ignoring the sensation, ignoring the sweat on his brow, ignoring his hair in his face and sticking to his neck. He works, pushing harder, and ignores the world around him, and inside him.

His phone buzzes against his thigh at three, and he drops dumbbell he was holding with a deep exhale. He goes over to the water fountain, and drinks and drinks and drinks. He’s hungry again, but he can’t stand being in this sweatshirt any longer, covered in sweat. He hightails it back to his room, the afternoon air hot around him and doing nothing to ease the sweat pooling between his shoulders. 

Despite how hot he’s feeling, he still turns the water as hot as he can stand when he gets in the shower. He strips his clothes off, dumping the sweatshirt harshly on the floor and giving it a kick for good measure. He should just buy another sweatshirt. 

He steps under the water and hisses, his skin too hot. He doesn’t shy away, just steps further in and soaks under it. Methodically, he washes himself from head to toe. Easing the knots out of his wet curls, passing soft hands over his arms, his chest, his stomach, and skipping down to his legs. The conditioner feels thick and heavy as is slides out of his hair and down his back, and he waits for the feeling to be gone before he gets out to towel off. In his room again, he chooses a pair of jeans and a collared shirt, which he buttons up to his neck. Then he puts on the grey sweatshirt, his heart finally settling. 

—

The doors to Student Services are tall glass, surrounded by grey stone. Billy stares at them, his long curls tickling his neck. He swats at them, irritated, on edge. He has three minutes. With what feels like his seventy fifth deep sigh of the day, he steps up to the doors and pushes inside. 

The air inside is starkly cooler than outside, summer still lingering on the last days of August. The office is quiet, only one person behind the desk in front of him, and no one waiting to be seen. He walks up to the desk, his footsteps echoing through the grey hall. When he sees the boy behind the desk, he stops, his voice stuck in this throat. Big, brown eyes look up at the sound of his footsteps, turning from friendly to startled to closed off in an instant. Billy stares, unsure of what to do.

“What can I do for you?” The boy’s voice is tight, nothing like when he asked Billy if he was okay yesterday. Billy shuffles, clearing his throat.

“I’m here for my shift,” he tells him, his voice coming out rougher than intended. Brown eyes heaves a sigh.

“Great,” he mutters, “I’m Steve, we’re desk partners. Are you Billy?”

Billy nods. Steve stands, holding out a name tag. Billy has to step forward to take it from him, and he does so quickly, snatching his hand back before it can touch Steve’s. He attaches it to his sweatshirt and tries to hide the shaking in his hands. Steve watches him do it.

“Come around here, I’ll show you how to clock in.” 

Billy walks around, sitting in the chair that Steve kicks out for him, and scoots away without making eye contact. Steve gives him an odd look, before leaning forward to turn on the monitor in front of Billy. 

“Put your school ID and password in,” he tells Billy, leaning forward on his elbow. Billy scoots further away from Steve before he does so. “Okay, now open up—yea Chrome is fine, go to the school site. Cool, open the—yea good, then just put your time in.”

Billy does as he’s told, trying very hard to keep his hands steady. He can feel the restlessness creeping back into his lungs, and regrets not running at the gym earlier. Steve shoots him a quick smile, leaning back into his chair and clapping Billy on the shoulder as he goes. Billy stiffens instantly.

“I told you to keep your hands to yourself, pretty boy,” he growls harshly, slapping his hand out on instinct to hit Steve’s hand away from his shoulder. Steve’s brown eyes widen again, staring at Billy in shock before quickly turning to anger. His own face contorts into a matching glare.

“What the hell is your problem?” Steve’s voice goes high with anger, recoiling from Billy’s slap. Billy’s heart is beating too hard, and he can feel himself drowning. He reaches down to snap the rubber band against his wrist, and doesn’t miss Steve’s eyes catching the motion.

“My problem is you touching me,” he hisses, his eyes darting around to make sure no one is looking, “I’m not a queer like you. Keep your hands off me.”

Steve goes bright red, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to figure out how to respond. Billy gives him one more look, then tugs his headphones out of his pocket, shoving them in his ears to effectively drown out the sound of Steve floundering. He plucks the rubber band harder against his wrist, timing the sting with the beats of his heart. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve turn back to whatever he was doing, and closes his eyes. 

It takes too long for him to come back down from his panic, and he doesn’t know what to do. His wrist is sore, and he knows it’s redder than usual without looking at it. He pulls out his headphones cautiously, but Steve isn’t paying attention to him, his long fingers clattering away on the keyboard. He watches him for a moment, feeling his heart stutter again, and then forcibly turns himself to his own monitor. He knows that once classes start, he’ll be able to do homework here, but for now, he plays the preloaded solitaire until 8 o’clock rolls around and his shift ends. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t notice the time passing until Steve stands. He looks up at the other boy, who looks down at him with a blank face.

“Don’t forget to clock out; the doors lock automatically in five minutes, so don’t linger.” And then he’s gone, out the door and out of Billy’s sight.

—

Steve slams the door to his apartment as hard as he can, his earlier anger still lingering along his bones. He hears Jonathan drop something at the loud sound, feels bad for a brief second before the feeling dissipates and he’s just left with his fury again. Jonathan comes around the corner, his outdated bowl cut slightly mussed. He raises an eyebrow at Steve, who’s grumbling as he shucks his bag and shoes by the door.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jonathan asks blandly. Steve turns to him, his laptop under his arm.

“My new coworker is an asshole,” Steve tells him, moving further into the apartment.

“Okay, and?”

“He’s a _homophobic_ asshole, and I’m not sure I can work with him,” Steve slumps onto the couch and opens his computer on his thighs, not looking as Jonathan sits next to him and props his elbow next to Steve’s head. 

“I need more details,” he says, and Steve glares at him.

“I patted him on the shoulder and he called me a queer and then told me to keep my hands to myself,” Steve stabs at the computer, opening an email to his boss.

_Mr Wells,_

_I was wondering if it would be possible to be assigned a new desk partner for my Sunday shifts. My current one and I do not get along, and I believe it would be best for everyone involved if we no longer had to work together. Please let me know._

_Thanks,_

_Steve Harrington_

“He really called you a queer?” Jonathan asks, watching Steve click around his email. 

“Yea,” Steve pauses, then turns his head to look at Jonathan, “it was really weird—he started snapping this rubber band against his wrist. He was really mad, looked like he could spit fire, but he just kept snapping the band.”

Jonathan squints down at him, pursing his lips. “That is kinda weird. I don’t know man, hopefully Wells’ll give you a new partner and you can move on with your life.”

Steve sighs, rolling his head back to face his computer again. “Unlikely.”

“Anyways,” Jonathan knocks his fist against Steve’s shoulder, “Nancy was bugging me about SPECTRUM. Says you guys need to book a room for the first meeting.”

Steve groans, covering his face with his hands. “I know, I meant to do it today but that guy just pissed me off.”

Jonathan sighs back at him, standing up and grabbing his phone from the coffee table. “I’ll text Barb for you. She’ll be less mad if I ask.”

“You’re the best!” Steve grins at Jonathan’s back as he walks away, waving his hand casually at Steve as he fiddles with his phone.

—

Billy’s hyperventilating by the time his door slams open. He hastily drags his phone and his keys out of his pocket, dumping them on his desk as his vision swims. His chest is tight, his heart is pounding, his hands are shaking. He drags them through his curls, scratching his nails deeply into his scalp. He does it again and again, feeling his face get redder as the minutes tick by. He sucks in an unsteady breath through his nose, his lungs burning, and exhales shakily through his mouth, like they told him to. Digs his fingers into his scalp again. Repeats. 

His heart slows, his breath comes easier, but he doesn’t feel better. Still shaking, he rips out of his clothes, standing in the middle of his room in nothing but his underwear. Reaching under his bed, he drags out the bottle of bleach he’d brought with him, rummaging around for the rag he knows is under there too. He spills the chemical onto the floor of his room, kneeling beside the puddle and dunking the rag in it, watching the liquid soak through. Then he begins to scrub. 

He shakes as he scrubs, his knees going numb on the hard floor of his room. He shuffles around, scrubbing and scrubbing until his arm shakes, and then he switches the rag to his other hand, and scrubs some more. His hands go numb too, and his room stinks of bleach. Finally, there’s no more floor, and he sits back heavily, stretching his legs out and surveying the damage. The tile glints back at him mockingly. He breathes through his mouth.

He feels calmer. Physically, all his muscles are shaking, but his heart is steady again. His head is no longer cloudy, and he drags himself up to put away his cleaning supplies, shoving them haphazardly under the bed where he can’t see them anymore. He doesn’t bother getting dressed again, dumping all his clothes in the hamper save his sweatshirt, which he pulls on over his chilled skin.

He climbs into his bed, drags his covers up to his chin and reaches across his desk to grab his phone. He wishes he could call Max, but he knows Neil would never let her talk at this time of night. Instead, he sets his alarms, turns off the light, and goes to bed before ten for the first time since camp.

—

In the morning, Billy feels fragile. He showers again, roughly scrubbing himself to get the smell of bleach off, and then dresses the same way he had the day before, in a button down, jeans, and his grey hoodie. He shuffles over to the dining hall, hoping to beat the crowds by going early, and eats his cereal with his head down. His first class goes quickly; he spends the whole time tapping his pen and glancing at the clock. It feels like coming up for air when he makes his way out of the lecture hall, heading out into the warm air outside as he makes his way over to the next one.

By midday, he’s too hot in his sweatshirt, so he takes it off—reluctantly. He folds it over his arms and clutches it close, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the crunch of his starched shirt. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out as he walks. The bubble on his home screen reads _Neil,_ and he swallows around a lump in his throat as he thumbs it open.

_Max says you went to mass yesterday. Good. Next time, introduce yourself to the priest. Don’t forget confession._

Billy taps out an _okay_ before he shoves the device back into his pocket, his skin suddenly too tight. He has fifteen minutes before his next class, and he doesn’t know what to do with the sudden rush of nervous energy. 

The art building looms before him, and he stumbles towards it like he would an oasis in a desert. Inside, it’s dark and cool, and there’s a big, blue sign telling him that practice rooms are upstairs. He takes them two at a time, hoping one is open. The first one he sees has a piano, which he can’t play, so he moves on. The next two are occupied. Finally, at the end of the hall, an empty room holds three guitars. He shoves the door open and lets all his stuff fall to the floor with a thump. 

He makes a grab for the acoustic guitar, a soft honey colored wood that shines in the dim light of the practice room. His hands are still shaking as he sinks to the floor with the instrument in his hands, and he crosses his legs underneath him to rest the guitar on them. He begins plucking at the strings, the vibrations close to his chest soothing the rampant stamp of his heart. He knows he doesn’t have long, but he sits and plays for as long as he can, his hair covering his face as he watches his hands tinker. 

When he looks up, there’s a girl watching him in the window, her face round and smiling down at him on the floor. He hastily shoves the guitar back onto its stand and stands, brushing down his jeans and trying not to stare. Her blonde hair frames her face, and her mouth is painted red. She moves to open the door, a tiny squeak coming from the hinges as it opens. She steps in as he reaches for his sweatshirt, worrying at the worn fabric.

“Hey, you’re really good!” She tells him, “I’m Robin—are you a music student?”

“Um, no,” Billy shakes his head, shifting uncomfortably, “I’m Billy, I’m a business major.”

“Oh,” Robin makes a face, “sorry about that.”

He shrugs, eyeing her and keeping the distance between them. “It makes my dad happy, and he’s paying, so.”

Robin nods, “I get it. My parents don’t really care, but a lot of people’s have opinions. I’m fine arts, so I’m always upstairs in the studios, if you ever wanna, like, have company in here.”

Billy blinks at her. “Oh,” he says softly, “thanks that’s—nice of you. I actually have to get to class so, I should go.”

“Yea, of course!” Robin smiles at him again, moving so he can pick his bag off the floor and get around her. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

Billy nods, mustering up a smile for her as he leaves.

—

At the end of the day, Billy goes back to the gym. He wears his grey sweatshirt, and runs til his lungs hurt. Til his hair sticks to his neck, and the sweat drips into his socks, and he can’t see through his wet lashes. Til his sweatshirt is damp all over, and his stomach roils, and his face burns. Then he wobbles down the stairs, sucks down water from the fountain, and heads back to his dorm. 

After a long and hot shower, he settles at his desk to do some homework. He’s tired, but he feels calm—a rare occurrence. He works easily through the pages he was assigned that day, and by eight he’s finished with everything. A knot settles in his stomach; his dad would want him to find something productive to do. The restless feeling from before creeps back in, but his sweatshirt is in the laundry. He doesn’t want to go out without it. He paces for a moment, steadily growing more agitated as time passes. Finally, he decides he can’t stay in his tiny room any longer with nothing to do and hours until bed. He pats his pocket for his phone, then grabs his keys and steps out of the room. Locks the door, and relocks, and relocks again.

Having already been to the gym, the only other place on campus he feels comfortable is the art building. His hands twitch around his keys as he thinks about the guitars, and decides that’s his best bet. Maybe he’ll see Robin again. There was something nonthreatening about her that he hadn’t seen in anyone here yet—he wouldn’t mind having her around occasionally.

It’s well past sunset when he steps out, and the campus is quiet as he walks across towards the art building. The street lamps cast shadows on every moving thing, though there aren't many people out and about. He keeps his hands in his pants pockets as he walks, turning the keys around and around their hoop. 

The building is dark when he enters, swiping his keycard because it’s after dark. He can hear a few people tinkering in the piano rooms, but otherwise there isn’t much noise. When he gets to the practice room, he picks up the honey colored acoustic again, settling on the floor with his back against the wall and the guitar on his lap. He feels soothed instantly as he begins playing, his heart an even tempo for him to play against. He makes his way through a few songs before the door creaks open across from him, and he startles, looking up and clutching the guitar to his chest. Robin grins down at him, her hands out placatingly.

“Easy tiger,” she says, settling down in front of him, crossing her legs under her in a mirror of his position, “I thought I heard you down here—not many people playing Queen on the acoustic guitar.”

Billy tries to smile at her. She seems nice. “I, um, just like some of their stuff.”

“They’re cool,” she nods solemnly, leaning back on her hands, “you know _Fat Bottomed Girls_?”

He shifts the guitar, running his tongue over his teeth. “Yea, I think so.”

She waves a hand at him. “Go on, then.”

He looks at her, trying to gage her motives, but she just stares placidly back. Slowly, he starts to play, the melody picking up and becoming boisterous as the song progresses. When he reaches the end, she grins at him, sitting up to give him a round of applause.

“You’re really good,” she tells him, enthusiasm pouring out of her, “sucks that you can’t do music as your major.”

Billy snorts, shocking himself. He clears his throat, slightly stunned at his uncharacteristic display of derision. “Yea, my dad would never allow that.”

Robin nods, making a face. “Well, at least you can play in here. You wanna come upstairs? I’m working on something and I could use your arms.”

“My…arms?” Billy asks hesitantly, suddenly wishing he had brought his sweatshirt even though it was dirty. Robin stands, reaching a hand down to help him up. He grabs it, allowing her to maneuver him up.

“It’s heavy,” she clarifies, “I can probably do it but it’ll be easier if you help me.”

Billy shrugs, putting the guitar back down. “Okay.”

He follows her silently as she leads him up the stairs to the studios. They reach the third door on the right, and Robin pushes it open. Billy understands now why she had heard him both times—her studio is directly over his practice room. She points at a heavy looking birdbath.

“I need you to put it in that bin,” she points again, “so I can smash it to pieces.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Smash it?”

She grins up at him. “It’s art.”

He shrugs, going over to the bird bath and lifting it easily. He sets it gently in the bin Robin had indicated, then moves back to settle on the stool by the window to watch her. She chatters while she works, not actually smashing, but carving and clipping it into a different shape. He listens, interjecting very occasionally, and only plucking at his rubber band twice. Her alarm goes off at midnight, and Billy is shocked to realize how much time he had spent, at ease, with another human being. He helps her pack up her tools, then walks with her back downstairs. At the door, he turns to her, unsure how to say good-bye—or ask if she’d be back tomorrow.

“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” She asks before he can find the words. He nods hastily.

“Yes,” he blurts, realizing immediately that he sounds too eager. She doesn’t seem to mind, just smiles at him again.

“Cool, I’ll be in the dining hall at eight, if that’s okay? Early class,” she makes a face.

“That’s fine,” he tells her, and musters up a smile. She nods decisively.

“Great! See you tomorrow, then, Billy,” she waves as she walks away. He watches her disappear into the night, and wonders how on earth he managed to make a friend.

—

By the end of the week, Steve’s already feeling beat to all hell. He knew senior year wouldn’t be a cake walk, but his professors have already piled more work on him than he can conceivably do in the time he has to do it. Whoever thought he should do engineering is an idiot. He’s spent the whole weekend trying to get ahead, and now, as he walks into work, he feels dead on his feet and not capable of dealing with his desk mate. Wells had informed him, cordially, that the schedule for the semester was set, and no one would be able to switch for more than a shift. 

Billy’s not there when Steve gets there, relieving the previous team, so he dumps his stuff over the desk, pulling out his textbook and his laptop and starting his work after he’s clocked in. Not long after, he looks up to see Billy walk through the doors, wearing the same faded grey sweatshirt as last time, the sleeves of a button down peeking out the ends. 

He turns back to his computer immediately, avoiding eye contact with the other boy. He can see Billy pull his own computer out of his bag beside him, but he doesn’t speak. Steve feels on edge now that Billy’s here, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. Physically, Billy is huge, and could probably literally beat Steve to an early grave if he really wanted to. 

Steve watches out of the corner of his eye as Billy taps quietly at his computer. He’s hunched over, as though trying to appear smaller, his long, blond curls falling across his face in a curtain, shielding him from view. After a while, Billy’s hand sneaks under his sleeve, plucking at the rubber band Steve can just see under his sweater. 

Steve worries at the sticker on his laptop, frayed at the edges but still a clearly visible bi flag. He sees Billy turn slightly, his eyes going to Steve’s hands on the keyboard. Steve watches in fascination as a blush creeps up Billy’s neck, staining his normally golden skin a dusty pink. 

Unsure what to do, Steve turns more fully towards his computer, scooting his chair closer to the desk. There’s nothing to do except homework, since the job is just to be around in case a student needs something—which they never do on Sunday evenings. He glances over again to see Billy’s turned his gaze back to his reading, something dense that Steve knows would give him a headache if he tried to read it. He sees Billy shift in his seat a little, and wonders how the kid is wearing a sweater and jeans in the middle of summer. 

The shift ends without a word between them, and Steve hastens out before Billy again, not glancing behind him as he goes. 

—

Billy's minding his own business as he walks back to his dorm on a Wednesday, a few weeks into October, engrossed in an article on his phone that Robin had sent him, his bag slung over his shoulder. Out of nowhere, a bright pink flyer is shoved under his nose. He recoils, staring up into the eyes of the tall girl in front of him. She has thick rimmed glasses and short cropped hair, and she's been talking the whole time Billy’s been staring. He shakes his head, looking down at the flyer she's trying to give him. 

“What?” He asks dazedly. She just smiles down at him. 

“Come to the SPECTRUM meeting,” she says again, “we welcome people of all genders and sexualities.”

He jolts, stepping back and slapping the flyer out of her hand. He can feel the rushing sensation in his chest that comes with a panic attack, and he forces it down, getting angry instead. 

“I'm not a faggot,” he all but shouts, tasting fear on the back of his tongue as her face contorts, “you can burn in hell.” 

He starts walking again, desperate to get away. He sees Steve staring at him, and his heart leaps into his throat, sweat dappling his temples, his stomach roiling. He bares his teeth at the other boy. 

“Walk away, Billy,” Steve's voice is soft but furious, and he glares at Billy, clutching his own ream of fliers like a shield. Billy tosses his head like an angry horse, his phone creaking in his hand as the pressure mounts, but he says nothing else, not trusting his voice to stay steady as he hurries away. 

Back in his dorm, he throws his bag as hard as he can against the wall, then throws his phone at his bed. He paces, fear and anger choking him again until he can't see through it, and turns with all his weight to throw his fist into the wall. Pain laces through his fingers, but he does it again and again until his knuckles are bloody. He can feel himself spiraling, doesn't know what to do with all this negative energy, and struggles out of his clothes with a stiff hand. 

He throws them in the hamper, rakes his hands through his hair again and again, the blood from his knuckles matting it down. Without thinking, he sinks to his knees and drags the bleach out. 

It stings his weeping wounds, and he hisses through clenched teeth, but doesn't let up his scrubbing until the pain is unbearable. He clutches his knees to his chest and hangs his head between them, sucking harsh breaths through his mouth. 

Why had she done that? What had he done to get asked to join their gay club? His father would be furious if he found out. He hadn't gone to camp to be mistaken for a queer. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, Steve's angry face clear as day in his mind’s eye. He reaches his hands up again to fist at his hair, tugging harshly with his bruised knuckles, desperate to move the sensation from his chest. 

Finally, after an eon, he calms enough to stand and stumble into the bathroom. He shucks his briefs without looking in the mirror and turns the shower as hot as it'll go. He scrubs at his skin and his hair, his mind rushing, the water loud in his ears. His skin is rubbed red when he gets out, but he doesn't feel like dying anymore. He wraps his stiff knuckles carefully, tiny droplets of blood welling back up now that his hand is no longer under the assault of the water. 

He puts on a new pair of underwear and shoves the cleaning supplies under his bed. It's only seven, but he feels like he could sleep for thirty years, so he climbs into his bed and curls under the covers. He lays there, curled tiny in a ball, and realizes after a moment that he's crying. He swipes angrily as his face and wills himself to stop. Men don't cry, a voice in his head tells him. Eventually, he drifts into an uneasy sleep. 

—

“Where were you last night?” Robin’s voice is casual as she sits across from him at breakfast, picking at the eggs on her plate. Billy looks up from his cereal. 

“I, um, wasn't feeling well,” he tells her. A guilty snarl curls around his chest; he doesn't like lying to her. She frowns sympathetically. 

“That sucks, man,” she says, “do you feel better now? You've barely eaten.”

He shrugs, pushing his spoon through the mush in his bowl. “I still don't feel good, I guess. I'll be fine.” 

She eyes him critically from across the table, her eyes going to his bandaged hand. Before she can say anything else, Carol drops into the empty seat next to Billy, a to go cup in her manicured hand. She's grinning, as usual. 

“Hey guys,” she chirps, “Billy, I came to ask if you wanted to come to the CSU party on Saturday, since I haven't seen you at the last few meetings.”

Billy stills, glancing across at Robin, who shrugs at him. He swallows, clutching his spoon. 

“I don't know,” he says, “my dad wouldn't like—”

“Oh, it's dry,” she assures him, “no alcohol, a lot of the CSU kids don't drink. You don't have to, I just thought I'd extend the invite! You can bring your friend if you want.”

“I'll think about it,” he hedges, glancing at Robin again. Carol beams at him, her glossy mouth stretched wide. 

“Super! I'll text you the address! I'll see you around!” She stands as she speaks, gesticulating wildly. Billy nods, giving her a tense smile as she flounces away. 

“Are you gonna go?” Robin asks. Billy turns to her again, still fiddling with the spoon. He shrugs. 

“I don't think so.” He tells his cereal. He probably wouldn't mind going, but he has no idea how he'll feel on Saturday, and with everything that's happened it's pretty much a coin flip if he'll be okay enough to socialize or if he'll be scrubbing his floor until he collapses. 

“I'd go with you if you want,” Robin’s tone is nonchalant, but when he looks up at her again she's watching him carefully. “It'll probably just be a bunch of kids standing around, but it could be an okay scene.”

He twists his mouth, unsure. His hand sneaks down to snap at his rubber band. “Maybe.”

Robin shrugs, stacking his things on her tray and standing. “You don't have to decide now, but if you do wanna go I'll go with you.”

He stands with her, grabbing his bag, and nods, letting his hair flop over his face so she can't see the tiny smile she put there. 

They bus their trays and go their separate ways to class, and Billy walks away feeling an odd combination of nervous and comforted. 


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Billy and Robin arrive at Carol’s on Saturday, he’s already regretting his decision to come. Robin looks up at him, her light eyes lined with kohl and her lips painted bright red. She smiles reassuringly, reaching out to pat him on the arm.

“It’ll be fine,” she says, wrapping her hand around his bicep to pull him inside with her, “you can’t even hear the music from here, it’s not gonna be crazy.”

He swallows around the lump in his throat, not trusting his voice enough to speak. He lets her drag him upstairs to Carol’s apartment, lets her knock on the door, shoves his hands into the kangaroo pouch of his sweatshirt, turns the keys around and around the ring. Carol flings the door open with great enthusiasm, her mouth glossy and pink and stretched wide in a friendly smile. 

“You came!” She’s shrill, as usual, but Billy lets her usher them into the apartment. There’s not many people in the living room, small clusters of kids chattering away as Ariana Grande plays on the speakers by the TV at a reasonable volume. Carol reaches out for them, grabbing each of them by the arm and nattering as she drags them towards the kitchen. 

“Nancy, can you get them a drink?”

A short, mousy girl is standing by the fridge in a red striped t-shirt and jeans, her brown, curly hair cut in a sweet bob. She smiles at Carol, who struts away to greet someone else, and turns away from the boy she’s talking to to reach into the fridge. She pulls out two cokes, hands them over.

“Hope that’s okay,” her mouth pinches apologetically, “that’s all that’s left unless you want water.”

Robin smiles at her, cracking her can open, “this is fine, thanks. I’m Robin, that’s Billy.”

Nancy shakes her hand, her pink lips curved in an answering smile. Billy holds his breath as Nancy reaches out a tiny hand to shake his, his heart stuttering a little. 

“This is Jonathan,” Nancy leans back next to the boy she had been talking to before. He nods at Robin and Billy, but makes no move to shake their hands—Billy is grateful. He feels hot around his collar; Jonathan is about the same height as Billy, and although his hair is stupid, Billy can’t help but stare a little at the boy’s dark brown eyes. Robin nudges him gently in the side, and he realizes that they’ve been talking to him.

“What?” He blurts, suddenly embarrassed. Nancy offers him a smile.

“Robin said you were a transfer student,” she tells him, “I’m a business major too, we’ll probably have some classes together at some point.”

“Oh,” he nods, “cool—I don’t really know anyone in my classes yet.”

Nancy hums. “You’re not missing anything.”

He looks at Robin for help, unsure where this is going. Robin jumps in.

“Jonathan, you’re photography right? I’ve seen you in the darkrooms, I think,” Robin has to pitch her voice up to be heard over the sudden burst of noise by the door. Jonathan clears his throat, shifting against the counter where he leans next to Nancy, the coke can in his hands sweating.

“Yea, I’m usually in there,” he answers, “my roommate got tired of me using the bathroom to hang.”

Billy snorts into his drink, then takes a large sip in the hopes that the rest of them will ignore his outburst. Robin plows ahead.

“Are you guys in dorms?” 

“Nancy is,” Jonathan tells her, “I’m in the on campus apartments.”

Robin groans. “You’re so lucky. I tried to get in on those but they had too many seniors or something so I wound up in Ellis instead.”

“Are you at least in a single?” Asks Nancy.

“Yea, but I woulda loved to have a kitchen, you know?”

Billy tunes out, his eyes skittering around the kitchen as he surveys the people around them. There’s a cluster of girls in the other corner, all remarkably similar looking, giggling into their hands and gesticulating wildly, their blonde hair stick straight and flowing down their backs. From where he stands, he can see some of the groups in the living room, Carol in the corner wrapping herself tightly around a dark haired boy with broad shoulders. Billy looks away quickly, his cheeks heating. He sneaks a hand under his sleeve to snap his rubber band.

“Billy.”

He startles, dragging his eyes away from the wall above Carol’s head to look down at Robin. She looks worried.

“Are you okay?” She asks quietly. He nods, looking over to Nancy and Jonathan who are looking at him oddly. He pulls his hand out of his sleeve and digs into his kangaroo pouch, gripping his keys tightly and feeling them bite into his palm. He takes a sip from his can, and watches Jonathan pull his arm from behind Nancy to grab his phone from his pocket. He tilts the screen towards Nancy, twin smiles on their faces. He looks back up at Billy and Robin.

“Looks like my roommate’s gonna stop by,” he tells them, “I think you’ve met him, Robin—Steve Harrington.”

Billy’s breath freezes in his lungs. He can feel the blood draining from his face. Steve—there has to be more than one, right? It can’t be who he’s thinking of. The can in his hand creaks, and suddenly there’s coke all over his sleeve. Robin yelps, and Billy just blinks at his hand, now holding a crushed and empty can. Nancy twists to grab a paper towel, lurching forward to pat him down. He’s still frozen, not sure how to get air into his lungs. He’s vaguely aware of Robin and Nancy asking him if he’s okay, if he wants to leave, but he can’t make himself move. 

“King Steve!” A shout goes up from the door, and Billy turns instinctively to see Carol and her boyfriend wrapping a smiling Steve in a tight hug. He sees Carol grinning and gesturing, waving her hands towards the kitchen, and Billy still can’t breathe. Robin’s tugging on his dry sleeve, but all he can do is watch in horror as Carol drags Steve, wearing a too-tight polo, towards the kitchen. He hasn’t seen Billy yet, still chatting happily to Carol’s boyfriend, his full mouth wide and smiling, his brown eyes crinkled at the corners. He stumbles a bit, wobbling and giggling and gripping at Carol’s sleeve with large hands. 

“Billy!” Carol’s giggling too when they arrive, and she shoves Steve up to prop him against her boyfriend, “this is my boyfriend, Tommy, and our idiot friend, Steve.”

Steve looks up at him from his slouch against Tommy, and suddenly the mirth is gone from his eyes. He stands up straight, suddenly just slightly taller than Billy, eyes clearing and looking more sober than he probably is. Billy’s hands are shaking.

“Of course,” Steve grunts, shoving away from Tommy and Carol, “you’re everywhere, man. Thought you didn’t hang out with queers.”

Billy still can’t move, his chest too hot. Steve waves to Jonathan and Nancy, then points at them. “Nancy’s the treasurer of SPECTRUM, Jonathan’s the secretary. If you wanted to avoid us you came to the wrong place.”

Billy sucks in a breath, looking over at the couple Steve had indicated. He knows he must look wild, frozen and snarling involuntarily up at Steve. His head is pounding.

“Fuck you, Harrington,” he manages to spit, his voice wobbling, “I’m out of here.”

He doesn’t bother to see if Robin is following him as he shoves past Steve, knocking him as hard as he can with his shoulder. He hightails it out of the apartment, still gripping the crushed can in his left hand, the folded metal digging into the flesh of his palm and stinging. He can’t hear anything over the rushing in his ears, and he stumbles over the threshold as he exits the building into the night air. 

His legs give out and he sinks to the ground, chucking the can as he goes, his hands going to his hair automatically. He heaves, nothing coming up, and pulls harshly at his hair, again and again. His face feels wet, and he knows he must be crying, but he still can’t breathe around the lump in his throat. He heaves again, still dry, tugs harder at his hair.

Small hands wrap around his wrists, and he jerks back, wild eyed, staring up into Robin’s worried face. He stares at her for a moment, her hands still up as though she might touch him again, and then he twists and finally throws up his dinner into the bushes. He hears Robin make a wounded noise, but he doesn’t turn around, tears still burning the corners of his eyes. Robin puts a hand tentatively on his back, between his shoulder blades, where he knows he’s sweaty and gross. Her hand is tiny. His stomach rolls again, and he breathes harshly through his nose. He stays like that for an eon.

Finally, feeling shaky and clammy but no longer nauseous, he turns to face her, scrubbing a hand roughly across his mouth. Her hand slips from his back, but she keeps touching him, gripping his knee like an anchor. Robin opens her mouth, to ask him what happened, maybe, but he makes a wordless noise of protest, begging her not to ask as he squeezes his eyes shut and sneaks his hands back into his hair. She tugs them back out with a sigh.

“Come on, Billy,” her voice a soothing murmur, “let’s get you home.”

—

Billy doesn’t go to mass on Sunday. He calls in sick to work, too. Doesn’t go to the gym. Doesn’t eat. Just cleans his room, showers, and does it again. Wash, rinse, repeat. His knuckles split back open from the bleach, and he has a tiny cut on his other palm from the soda can that stings and weeps. He doesn’t bother with bandages until he goes to bed again, his whole body sore and exhausted and still bleeding. 

He doesn’t go to class the next day, doesn’t go to the art building to meet Robin. He goes to the dining hall with a takeout box when he knows Robin’s in class, goes home and cleans his room again. Rebandages his hands. Snaps his rubber band. Takes a too hot shower. Ignores Robin’s texts, goes to bed early.

By Wednesday, he knows he can’t hide anymore. He’s missed two days of class, and while he still shakes when he packs his bag, he can’t justify missing more. He doesn’t go to breakfast, just goes straight to his lecture hall. Keeps his head down as he walks to and from class. Skips lunch, goes back to his room instead. 

“Billy.”

He looks up from the floor to see Robin propped outside his room. She looks worried, her blonde hair limp around her face, her mouth its natural color for the first time since he met her. He doesn't know what to do, feels the urge to bolt. 

“Please talk to me,” she pleads, kicking off the wall, “please tell me what I did wrong.”

He swallows harshly, anxiety crawling up his throat and choking him. 

“How do you know Steve Harrington?” He asks, keeps his voice soft and quiet, feels his face and neck grow hot. 

“I met him at a SPECTRUM meeting,” she says, confusion growing in her tone. She keeps the distance between them, watching him like he's a wild animal. He flexes his wounded hands, eyes burning. 

“Are you gay?” He still speaks softly, but every part of him is shaking including his voice. He can't look her in the eye. 

“What if I am?” Her voice is hard, suddenly, and the fear in his chest is seeping and spreading and overwhelming. He can’t breathe.

“It’s a sin,” he tells her, unable to keep the desperation from his voice, “you can’t—Robin, it’s about your _soul_.”

She looks fully shocked at his words, and she takes a step back from him. Her mouth opens and closes, like she doesn’t know what to say. He waits, looking at her imploringly, begging her not to do this. Finally, her jaw clicks shut, and her spine straightens. She looks him dead in the eye.

“I am,” she says, her own voice unsteady. He can see tears gathering in her eyes. “I’m a lesbian, and I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

His heart stops, a wounded whimper escaping his mouth before he can stop it. She averts her eyes again, walks away from him without looking back, and he feels empty and suddenly more alone than he has since his first day here. He stands there for a long time, staring at the place she had just been and trying hard to breathe. His hands flex impotently at his sides.

His feet are moving before he realizes, turning him and walking away from his room and back out onto the quad. He needs—something. He can’t put his finger on it. He needs to move. He arrives at the gym on autopilot, before realizing that he’s not dressed to sweat. The panic crests again, his vision going dark around the edges, and he turns back around. He can’t go to the art building, it’s not his turf. The only place left is the church. He hopes desperately that it’s empty. 

He slumps into the last pew when he arrives, dumping his bag on the bench and sinking to his knees immediately. He doesn’t know what to pray for. Forgiveness, maybe? But he wasn’t _wrong_. Guidance? What can he do here but beg for understanding? He shakes, whispering his pleas under his breath, clutching his hands together and letting his hair fall over his face like a curtain. He stays a long time, his knees going numb, his voice going hoarse. He’s crying again, doesn’t know what to do to make it stop.

There’s footsteps approaching, and when he looks up it’s Carol, because of course it is. She looks shocked to see him, her mouth a cautious moue. He must look insane, whispering and shaking and crying, hair everywhere. She takes another step forward.

“Are you okay, Billy?” It’s the first time he’s heard her sound soft, none of her usual bubbliness evident in her voice. He opens his mouth to croak a reply, but nothing comes out except another whimper. He dissolves into embarrassing sobs, covers his face with his hands to hide from her, shoulders shaking as he sucks in air and hiccups. He feels her kneel next to him, smells her perfume as she wraps herself around his back and leans her face on his shoulder. She sits there, shushing him as he cries for too long.

When he finally calms down again, he scrubs his hands over his bright red face and sits up, dislodging Carol as he goes. She sits up too, but doesn’t let him go. Some of her hair still sticks to his sweatshirt.

“You wanna talk about it?” She keeps her voice low, and he can’t look at her. Doesn’t know how to make the words. Snaps his rubber band.

“Not right now,” his voice sounds scratchy and abused, and he hates himself for sounding pitiful. She looks at him for a second, then nods. 

“I came in here to set up for CSU, will you help me?” Her voice is still kind, but it doesn’t really sound like a question. He thinks it might be okay to have something to do with his hands. He takes a shaky breath, nods. She nods back, stands and brushes off her skirt, then reaches down to tug him up. “Grab your bag, we meet downstairs.”

He follows her, dumps his stuff where she tells him to, helps her move the chairs in the classroom under the chapel so they form a circle, helps her drag the tables out to the hall, stacks them while she watches and chatters. Tommy arrives at some point, kissing Carol quickly on the mouth and shooting Billy a grin. He throws himself into one of the chairs in the circle.

“Glad you could finally join us, man,” he says, his mouth slightly too wide on his angular face. He has freckles dusted over his nose, and Billy forces himself to look away from his broad shoulders. Shrugs. Doesn’t really reply.

“Billy, sit here next to me,” Carol pats the seat, her pink nails bright under the yellow lights, “everyone else will be here soon.”

Once only a few chairs remain, Carol claps her hands together and stands. Billy startles slightly, looking up at her as she starts talking.

“Welcome, welcome back,” she starts cheerfully, swishing her skirt above her knees, “Anyone else feel like the semester’s flying by? Seems like only yesterday it was August, and now it’s almost November! We have a few things to go over, ‘cause the next few months are going to be a bit crazy with everything we have going on. Next week we have Trick or Treat Street for the kids, so we’ll need volunteers to man our table in two hour increments and hand out candy.” 

She pulls a clipboard and a pen out of her bag, passing them to Tommy, who starts looking at the page before scribbling his name in one of the slots and passing it on. She pulls out another clipboard and starts talking again as the first circulates.

“Then we have our charity month starting the first weekend in November,” she taps another pen on the clipboard, “I’ve already contacted the pregnancy assistance center at Our Lady, so our first weekend will be spent helping them sort donations. We have a van, and it’s a 6 hour shift on Saturday, and a 6 hour shift on Sunday. You don’t have to do both, but I’m hoping to get as many people as we can to come with. We are partnering with a few other organizations for charity month, so we won’t be alone when we show up.”

Carol hands the other clipboard to Tommy, who surveys it again and writes his name on the first page. Carol keeps talking as the boards go around; by the time they’re in Billy’s hands, he’s nervous again, and hasn’t heard a word Carol’s said. He signs up for the same shift as her for TOTS, feeling stupid and clingy, then signs the second clipboard for the Saturday shift so he won’t miss work. He puts the boards on Carol’s seat, answers her quick smile with a tense quirk of his lips. The meeting ends soon after, and he helps Carol and Tommy put the room back together. 

When he walks away, he doesn’t feel better, but he does feel calm. He feels resolved. He knows what he needs to do, as distasteful as it might be. Robin may have decided she doesn’t want to be his friend at this point, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try to salvage something. He curls up on his bed when he gets home, dragging his laptop onto his lap, and breathes deeply through his nose. He navigates to the webpage he needs, copies the link, and sends it to Robin on iMessage.

_I’m not sorry for what I said, but I care about you. They helped me a lot last summer, and I think they can help you too._

Then he turns off his computer, mutes Robin on his phone, and texts Max to say he’s coming home that weekend. He needs a break.

—

Steve’s surprised when Robin shows up at the SPECTRUM meeting on Thursday. He hasn’t seen her since the fiasco on Saturday, and while they’re kind of friends, they don’t really hang out, and she doesn’t often come to meetings. Barb raises an eyebrow at him, but Nancy nudges her and shakes her head. They carry on as usual, but Steve watches Robin the whole time. He’s less surprised when she approaches him at the end, and he gives her a friendly smile. She looks tired.

“Hey, Robin,” he says, “you’ve met Nancy, right? And Barb, my VP?”

“Yea, hey guys,” she nods in greeting, dragging her lip under her teeth to worry at it. “Um, I need your help with something.”

Steve frowns. “Okay?”

Robin sighs, slumping into the seat in front of him like all her strings have been cut. “So, I think you guys know my friend, Billy.”

Steve feels himself stiffen involuntarily. “What about him?”

“Well, so,” she hums, frustrated, “god, I feel shitty talking about him when he’s not here but I really don’t know what to do.”

Nancy glances at Steve, then reaches out to tap Robin’s hand gently. “Whatever you say to us stays between us. Unless he’s planning to harm himself or someone else, we won’t tell anyone.”

Robin passes a hand over her face. “I don’t think he’d hurt anyone…but I think someone hurt him.”

Steve feels cold suddenly, makes eye contact with Barb and Nancy again.

“I, um, need more details,” he tells her gently. Watches her lean forward to rest her elbows on her spread knees.

“So, after that party,” she starts, voice quiet, “I found him outside, in really bad shape. He, um, threw up? He seemed really upset, and I know he hadn’t been drinking. He kept yanking his hair, plucking at this stupid rubber band he always wears. He couldn’t even talk, he didn’t say a word to me the whole way back to his dorm, and I didn’t hear from him until yesterday, which is weird because we eat breakfast everyday and we always hang out in the art building. He’s kind of a quiet guy? Jumpy. He seems calmer in there, when there’s less people around, but he still barely talks. He can be really sarcastic sometimes, which is funny, but he always seems to regret it when he says something like that, like, he looks at me to make sure it was okay, and snaps that stupid rubber band—anyway, he was avoiding me. So I went to his dorm, and he, like.”

She stops, clutching her hands together, sucks in a shaky breath. The three of them just watch her, wait for her to continue. She takes another deep breath.

“He asked me if I was gay,” she admits, “and he didn’t seem mad, he seemed _scared_, like he knew the answer but didn’t want it. So, obviously, I told him I was. He said it was a sin, something about my soul—said I _couldn’t_. I got mad, told him I didn’t want to be his friend, and left.”

She pauses again, wrestling with the next part. Steve passes a hand over his mouth, leans forward to catch her eye.

“You did the right thing,” he tells her, “the first time we met he called me a queer, told me to keep my hands to myself. Called Barb a faggot the other day when she tried to hand him a flier. You don’t need to interact with people like that.”

“That’s the thing,” she shakes her head, “I don’t think he _is_ like that. He sent me a text last night, and I—“

She cuts herself off, reaching into her pocket for her phone. She taps for a second, then turns the screen so they can see. Steve’s breath freezes as he reads the link. He taps on it, and when the webpage loads, Nancy gasps quietly beside him. His hands shake as he hands the phone back. Robin looks between them.

“I didn’t respond—I didn’t know what to say? I thought these things only existed in the Deep South or something.” Her voice is fraught. Steve can see that she’s shaking too. He tugs a hand through his hair, not sure what to do here, either.

“Should we say something to him?” Nancy asks quietly. 

“I don’t think so,” Barb interjects, “he only sent that to Robin to save her immortal soul, I don’t think he wants it advertised.”

“A lot of stuff is starting to make sense,” Steve says, picking at a fraying seam on his jeans. “I noticed that rubber band too. He picks at it constantly.”

“So what do we do?” Robin asks, and Steve is startled to realize she’s looking to him. He raises his hands.

“Hey, why is this on me?”

“You’re the president,” Barb informs him with a raised brow, “besides, you’re the only one guaranteed to see him.”

Steve huffs, his hair fluttering off his forehead, and leans back with crossed arms. 

“I think,” he starts quietly, stops a second, mulling it over. “I think he needs to experience us outside of high pressure situations. Maybe if he sees us as nonthreatening, he’ll give us a chance to help him?”

Robin nods. “So what are you gonna say to him?”

“Again, why me?” Steve squawks a little. “We are _not_ friends, and he kinda hates me. Plus, he’s huge, he could kill me if he wanted to. I'd rather not risk it.”

Barb rolls her eyes, and Nancy slaps his shoulder. He yelps exaggeratedly, rubbing it and glaring at her. Robin sighs, looking skyward for assistance.

“Fine, I’ll text him and see if we can talk.”

“Cool,” Steve smiles at her, “let us know how it goes, we’ll have another powwow.”

—

Billy doesn’t check his phone the whole weekend. He spends Saturday with Max, playing video games in her room. Neil insists on the door being open, but other than asking Billy about church and his grades at dinner, he leaves Billy be the first day. Before he goes back on Sunday, Neil grabs him tight by the hair and forces him to his knees.

“No more weekend visits,” he tells him, his face and voice calm though his hands grip Billy tight enough to burn. “You’re an adult, it’s time you start acting like it. It’s not responsible to come here and play video games all weekend with your sister. She has homework to do—I assume you do too?”

Billy keeps his eyes to the left of his father’s face, grits out a terse “yes, sir.”

Neil’s smile is bland and mean. “Good. Get your ass back to school.” Gives Billy a smack on the cheek for good measure, shoves his head down by his hair as he walks away.

The drive back to school doesn’t take long, a few hours with no traffic, and Billy gets more anxious the closer he gets. The weekend is coming to a close, and though he’s successfully avoided work again, he feels an impending dread at the idea that he’ll soon have to face… well, everyone. 

He parks in his assigned lot, not as close to his building as he would have liked, and trudges through the chilly October air towards his room. The one good thing about the seasons changing: he can wear his sweatshirt comfortably and not provoke reactions from passersby. His heart kicks pathetically in his chest as he climbs the stairs to his room, half hoping Robin won’t be outside his door again, half hoping she will be.

The hall is empty. Billy sighs, stepping up and letting himself into his room. He dumps his bag in the corner, pulls out his phone and finally checks the notifications. He has to unmute Robin to see, and he regrets it instantly.

_Billy, what does that mean that they helped you?_

_I don’t understand_

_Can you call me?_

_Okay, no pressure_

_I’m really worried about you please let me know you’re okay_

He presses the corner of the phone to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing hard through his nose, thinking about how best to reply.

_I’m ok. _He sends, fingers hovering as he tries to figure out what to say next. The bubble to indicate her typing pops up immediately, and another text comes through.

_Breakfast tomorrow?_

He swallows, his heart thumping loudly against his ribcage at those two inconsequential words. He feels weak, unable to say no—more than that, he doesn’t _want_ to say no. He likes Robin, she’s the closest friend he’s had since before camp. Maybe there’s still room to fix this.

_Ok._

—

Billy lingers in the entrance to the dining hall, waiting for Robin. He tugs his sleeves over his hands, tugs a stray lock of hair, tugs his rubber band. He’s too early. He didn’t want to miss her, but now it feels like he’s drowning as he waits. 

He gets up from his seat and paces a little; it’s too early for anyone else to really be there, so he feels less self-conscious about his jitters than he normally would. He looks up each time the door opens, but Robin doesn’t walk in until five past eight. She stops when she sees him, stares for a moment, then sighs. She jerks her head.

“Come on, I’m hungry.”

He follows her through the turnstiles hurriedly, feeling like he could vibrate out of his skin. They dump their stuff at a table silently, going their separate ways to get food, then coming back and sitting opposite one another. Robin picks at her breakfast, still not fully looking at him. He doesn’t touch his cereal, plucking the rubber band nervously under the table as he waits for judgement. Finally, she takes a deep breath.

“Okay, listen,” she tells him, “what you said to me wasn’t okay. If these had been any other circumstances, I would never have spoken to you again.”

He swallows as she makes eye contact with him. She puts down her fork and clasps her hands tight together, looking at him with sympathetic eyes.

“That website,” her voice is pitched low, despite the empty tables around them, “did you really attend that camp?”

“I needed it,” he assures her, “my father noticed my weakness. He did it to help me.”

Robin looks like she’s going to cry. “Billy, no. You’re not weak—“

“I am,” he cuts her off, his voice shaking as he struggles to keep his resolve, “I’m weak, and I needed help to learn to stay away from temptation. They helped me. I’m better now.”

A tear spills over Robin’s eyelid, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. He stares her down, snaps his rubber band harder. She reaches for him, but stops just short of touching him. Her eyes are sad but her voice is firm.

“If you wanted to be with another boy, Billy,” she whispers, “that was not weakness. That was not temptation. And that was _certainly_ not something you needed to make better.”

He holds eye contact, knowing that if he breaks it then he, too, will break. He can’t breathe, knows his eyes are blurring because he’s on the verge of tears. He leans in.

“It was a sin,” he hisses, and feels the first tear fall, fear and anger burning under his hot cheeks, “it was wrong. My father knew it before I did. I needed it.”

Robin is shaking her head as she stands and pushes his stuff off the seat next to him so she can sit down. She drags his hand out from under the table, clutching it close to her sternum. 

“The only thing that’s wrong is what they did to you,” she tells him firmly. Her voice is thick with her own tears. She’s shaking too, and his heart stutters. “I will prove that to you if it is the last thing I do.”

He sucks bottom lip into his mouth, bites hard, voice small when he finally speaks. “How?”

She shakes her head again. “I don’t know yet. But I’m with you, Billy. You’re not alone in this, and you’re not wrong for feeling like you do.”

He doesn’t know what else to say, just lets her hold his hand and tries to match his breaths to hers. He feels lighter—still fraught, but like somehow there’s an end in sight. He jumps a little when she speaks again.

“How would you feel about going to a SPECTRUM meeting?” She asks. He feels the panic building again, tugs at his hand as he leans away and shakes his head harshly. Her eyes widen but she doesn’t let go. “Okay, okay. I’m not gonna make you go.”

She waits until he settles next to her again before she makes another attempt. “I just think, you know, Steve might be able to help you? He’s the president, and his vp, Barb, is also really cool—you already know Nancy and Jonathan. I think maybe they might know a bit about how to help with this.”

He tries to keep his cool when he answers tersely. “I’m not gay, and they all hate me anyway.”

Robin sighs. “Okay, first, let’s just clarify: they don’t hate you. They only know you as someone who’s thrown slurs at them and pushed them around. I’ve spent a lot of time with you; I know that’s not who you are. They just need the opportunity to see that. Second…”

She trails off, still clutching his hand as she searches his face for something. He feels too hot all over.

“I’m not going to try to tell you who you are,” she finally says, quietly, “but I think this will go a lot easier if you’re honest with yourself. Do you… Like boys?”

His hand twitches in hers, and he feels his eyes burning again, the lancing pain in his throat reminding him how fragile he is. He rolls his lips into his mouth and breathes harshly, trying to keep the tears at bay. Finally, he gives her a tiny nod, shame seeping into every crevice of his body. He’s never acknowledged it to anyone before, not even at camp. She squeezes his hand.

“Okay.” Scoots her chair closer, ducks down to meet his eyes. “That’s good, Billy. Thank you for telling me.”

He swipes at his face with his other hand; it comes away wet. He sniffs. “Can we, um, get some new breakfast?”

She smiles, squeezing his hand again before letting go. “Yea, yours is probably all soggy. Besides, I think that’s enough gut wrenching for one morning.”

They eat mostly in silence once they get their new food, but it feels calmer—settled. Billy feels rubbed raw, but he’s not afraid anymore. She knows his biggest shame and doesn’t hate him for it. All in all, it could have gone way worse.

Outside the dining hall, as they say their goodbyes, Robin reaches up to give him a squeeze around his shoulders. He can’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t Max hugged him. He tentatively squeezes back, a warm feeling settling behind his ribs. She steps back and grins up at his face.

“I’ll see you in the art building later, okay?” He nods. “And seriously: I’m proud of you for telling me that. I know this isn’t easy.”

He nods again, dredges up a smile to answer hers, and watches her walk away.

—

Billy is cold. Carol’s been chattering at him for the past twenty minutes, and he hasn’t heard a word of it. The kids are cute in their costumes as they come up to the different tables for candy, but he’s sorely regretting signing up to be here. After his revelation to Robin the other day, he’s been struggling to stay focused on the the tasks at hand. He keeps going over it and over it in his head, doesn’t know what to do with what she said to him. With a surge of uncharacteristic confidence, he turns to Carol to interrupt her diatribe.

“Can I ask you something?” Their table is down by a corner on the walk, most of the other tables further up the hill. There’s a gaggle of young kids with moms up by the African Student Alliance’s table, but no one is near theirs at the moment. Carol stops talking, giving him a glossy smile. She’s wearing cat ears and a black sweater; Billy hadn’t bothered dressing up.

“Sure,” she chirps, “what’s up?”

“Um,” he stutters for a second, unsure again in a rush. He plows forward anyway. “What do you think about homosexuality?”

Carol looks surprised at the question, probably not expecting something so heavy this early on a Thursday morning.

“Well,” she starts, rolling the words around in her mouth as she thinks. She looks serious for once. “I know some people in the church have a problem with it, but I don’t.”

“Why?” He blurts. Her lips tick up in a poor facsimile of her earlier smile.

“I’ve known Steve a long time,” she says softly, and his heart thuds loudly in his chest at the mention, “we grew up together, me, him, and Tommy. Our town was tiny, pretty much everyone went to church, but there weren’t that many people around who even acknowledged that being gay could be a thing? Believe it or not, Steve and Tommy both were pretty homophobic in the beginning. Nobody really understood. Steve used to date girls—every girl, actually, but eventually, he started realizing, I guess.”

“Realizing?” He presses. She looks at him, eyes soft.

“Yea, realizing. That maybe girls weren’t the only people he wanted to date. He was the first person I knew to come out, but we all ended up here and he joined SPECTRUM. He’s a good guy, he introduced me to a lot of people who had different world views than we grew up with, and I really can’t imagine him going to hell for loving another boy, you know? You’ve met Nancy, too, she’s one of the sweetest people. Do you really think God wants her to burn for not just liking boys? Or do you think that He’d rather stick with His message of love, like every other lesson tells us?”

Billy’s quiet as he digests. He hands out candy to a bumble bee and lady bug duo that approach their table, sneaks a piece for himself. Carol doesn’t press him, just keeps smiling wide and talking to the guests that approach them. At another lull, Billy clears his throat.

“So you don’t think it’s bad?” He feels like a child, begging for reassurance. She smiles over at him.

“No. I think God wants me to love everyone regardless of who they love,” she hands him a mini snickers, “even if it’s you, Billy.”

He unpeels it with shaking hands. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” 

He nods, not looking at her, then pops the candy in his mouth and chews. He doesn’t want to ask how she knows. Doesn’t think it really matters anyway, at this point.

“Thanks, Carol,” he says softly. She pats his hand.

“Anytime.”

—

Steve shows up at SPECTRUM feeling harried and a little on edge. Robin had told him she had news and would be attending tonight, and he knows Nancy is also feeling anxious about the Billy Situation, though Barb remains unflappable as always. Jonathan and Nancy are already there, talking quietly at the front of the room as they examine Nancy’s laptop. They look up at him as he walks in, dumping his stuff on the floor by Jonathan’s feet and throwing himself into the chair next to him.

“Steve,” Nancy greets him, tilting the screen so he can see, “I was just showing Jonathan the van we have booked for Saturday, since he’s driving.”

Steve nods. “Cool. Thanks for reminding me actually, I almost forgot that was happening.”

Jonathan snorts at him. “You’re great at this presidency thing.”

“He shoulda just given it to me,” Barb says as she enters. Steve squawks indignantly at her.

“You said you didn’t want it,” he points accusingly at her, “you made me run!”

Barb grins, “yea, I’m better behind the scenes. Plus, you’re prettier, way more likely to appease the masses.”

Nancy glowers at her friend. “You’re pretty too, Barb.”

“Yea, yea,” Barb flaps a hand at Nancy as she takes the seat next to Steve, “calm down.”

They bicker as the room fills; Steve sees Robin sneak in the back when he stands to hold court. He goes over the announcements, reminds people about Saturday’s service hours, and ends the meeting with a game. He watches Robin as the rest of the meeting files out, gestures at her to come up when the room empties. She drags a chair out so she can sit in front of Steve and his cluster.

“So?” Steve asks, feeling oddly nervous. 

“I don’t want to go into the details,” she tells him, “I don’t want to talk about him behind his back more than I have to.”

“That’s fine,” he assures her, “just tell us as much as you’re comfortable.”

She heaves a sigh. “Well, from what I gathered, he has a really shitty dad. He went to that camp over the summer, and they did a number on him. He’s really scared, more than anything else, and he doesn’t want to ask for help because he thinks everyone hates him. You guys in particular.”

“Does he know he needs help?” Nancy asks, a frown creasing her brow. Robin nods, expelling another sigh.

“He knows, but—like I said, these people,” she shudders, “they messed him up _good._ He’s really stuck.”

Jonathan and Barb exchange a look. Steve looks at Nancy. She offers him a tiny shrug, her mouth curved down with displeasure.

“He also mentioned he’d be going to Our Lady on Saturday,” Robin says, “Carol strong armed him. He’s not great at saying no, though I get the feeling that less to do with him not knowing how and more to do with him having been told repeatedly he’s not allowed to.”

“Well,” Barb says, looking at Steve, “you wanted non threatening situations.”

—

Saturday dawns bright and cold, November snapping in with a vengeance. The leaves have been turning slowly for weeks now, and when Billy steps out of his dorm to head towards the parking lot to meet the CSU van, they've decided finally on bright reds and yellows, the green all but gone from the branches above him. 

He walks slowly, enjoying the cold air through his layers, having thrown on a jacket over his grey sweatshirt. Dead leaves crunch under his boots as he walks, and he can't help but dance towards them in an effort to make more of the sounds. 

He's one of the first to arrive, Carol and Tommy the only other two waiting by the van when he approaches. Carol grins and waves, one gloved hand tucked tight in Tommy's. 

“Hey, Billy,” she says cheerily, “ready for a long day of folding?” 

He smiles at her, small but genuine. “Sure, if that's the job.”

He lets the two of them chatter at him for a while, nods in greeting as a few more kids show up. Finally, Carol does a head count and they load onto the bus, Tommy in the driver’s seat. 

Billy chooses an empty row and presses his head against the cold glass. His breath fogs up in front of him; he drags a finger through the condensation. When the van starts moving he has to sit up again, the windows rattling as the vehicle bumps along the road. 

It's not a long drive, and they arrive without incident. They all pile out and hurry towards the doors to the center, trying to escape the cold as quickly as possible. 

A stout woman in a habit greets them as they enter, her face wizened and eyebrows grey. Her eyes crinkle with crows feet as she smiles at them. 

“Are you with the university?” She asks. Carol steps up, tugging her gloves off her hands. 

“Yes! We're with the Catholic Student Union, I think some of our partners are coming too?”

The woman nods, “they arrived a few minutes ago, they're just through here.”

She leads them through a long hallway deep into the back of the building. When they arrive, Billy stops in his tracks. 

In a cavernous room filled with folding tables piled high with donations, Steve Harrington stands among peers. Billy's breath feels small in his tight chest, and he sees Nancy look up from Steve's side as they enter. His hands are starting to shake again, but he has nowhere to go. 

He makes eye contact with Nancy, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. For a moment, neither of them moves, then she offers him a small smile. His breath leaves him in a rush. He steps into the room and lets Carol grab his arm. 

“Billy’s really strong,” she's telling the sister, “if you need anything moved he's your guy.”

Billy says nothing, but smiles down at the old woman anyway. She pats his arm. 

“There's actually a few boxes out back we could use help bringing in,” she tells him, tottering towards the door. He follows her, a few paces behind. “They're not terribly heavy, but most of us who work here are quite old, and lifting is hard on us.”

He gives her another smile and lets her direct him to pick up the boxes, one at a time, and bring them into the staging area the others are working in. When he finishes, she gives him another pat on the arm and wanders away. He looks uncertainly at the others, all grouped off already. 

“Billy!” He looks up to see Nancy waving him over. He hurries towards her, relieved. She's standing in front of several large bins of clothing, unfolded, with piles of folded clothes on the table in front of her. “Are you okay to help me with this?”

He nods, reaching into the bin to grab a handful to get started with. They fold in silence for a while, the sound of the room swelling and ebbing around them as the other students’ conversations start and stop. 

“Robin talked to us.” Billy goes cold at Nancy's words, looking over at her with wide eyes. His hands go slack around the onesie he's holding before he's clutching it tightly. 

“I don't know what she told you—” his growl is cut off by Nancy waving her hands placatingly. 

“She didn't give us any details,” she informs him hastily, “just that you had a really shitty dad. And, um, she told us he sent you to that camp. Please, don't be angry.”

He feels himself seethe, struggling desperately against the pounding of his heart. He feels betrayed. 

“Who else did she tell.” It doesn't come out like question, and he has to lean down on his hands because he thinks his knees might not hold him any longer. 

“Billy—” 

“That wasn't hers to tell!” He cuts her off with a roar that surprises even him. He has to get out. 

He rushes out the back door the sister had shown him through earlier, sinking down on the cold ground and clutching at his hair. How could Robin have done that? He yanks harshly. He thought he could trust her. 

He jerks as someone sits next to him. Surprise of all surprises, it's Steve. He's wearing a blue bomber jacket, and his brown hair is floppy over his forehead. Steve's sudden appearance doesn't do anything to ease the exposed feeling in Billy’s chest, but his hands aren't clutching at his hair anymore. 

“Robin was worried,” Steve tells him in a hush. He doesn't look at Billy, just shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and leans his head against the brick wall, brown eyes staring up at the sky. “She didn't know who else to go to, but she didn't tell us anything.”

“She told you enough,” Billy’s voice comes out croaky and pathetic. Steve does turn to look at him then, lifting his head off the wall to make eye contact. 

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but it doesn't change anything.”

“What does that mean?” Billy snarls, hot under his collar. 

“It means,” Steve shifts against the wall, “that you're still an ass. Just because you have a reason, doesn't make it okay.”

Billy swallows around the lump in his throat. “That's really reassuring, thanks.”

“I didn't come out here to reassure you,” Steve informs him placidly, “I came out here to tell you that if you ever—and I mean _ever_—talk to Robin or Nancy or _Barb_ like that again, I will kick your ass. Doesn't matter how much muscle you're hiding under there.”

Billy doesn't know what to say. He just stares into Steve's big, brown eyes. Waits for the next thing. 

“I also came out here,” he continues, “to tell you that if you want to be better, we're willing to help you.”

“We?” Billy asks, his voice soft and ragged. He feels like he might cry. 

“We. All of us. I don't know what they did to you in that camp, but it was wrong. You can't go around throwing your hurt feelings at other people, but none of us wanted you to be hurting in the first place. So if you want to be better, we're here.” Steve stands as he finishes, reaching a hand down to Billy. He looks at it for a minute. He hasn't touched another boy in months. Finally, he reaches out, takes Steve's hand, and lets him pull him out of his misery. 

—

When he arrives at Robin’s studio that night, he's not as shaken and angry as he was earlier in the day. Nancy hadn't mentioned his outburst when he'd gone back in, and he'd spent the afternoon apologizing silently by doing whatever she asked without complaint. 

He looks up at the threshold, sees Jonathan on Billy’s stool chatting comfortably with Robin. She smiles when she sees him, but falters when she sees his face. 

“Talking about me?” He asks nonchalantly, not moving from the doorway. His hand sneaks down to worry his rubber band. Jonathan glances at Robin awkwardly. She flutters her hands like a nervous bird. 

“Um, Steve texted,” she says, “said you talked to Nancy. You have to understand, I didn't do it to hurt you—I was scared. I didn't know what to do? And I didn't know who else to ask. But I didn't tell them—everything.”

Billy swallows harshly. “You didn't tell them—?”

“No,” Robin shakes her head hastily, “everything you told me during breakfast stays between us. I only went to them because you_ weren't _talking to me, but I didn't tell them anything.”

He sucks in a harsh breath, his eyes going to Jonathan, who's watching the interaction with curious and cautious eyes. 

“I didn't want anyone to know,” he tells her, struggling to get the words out, “I don't think—I don't think you meant to hurt me—”

“I didn't,” she assures him, stepping forward with her hands up placatingly. “I really didn't, I wanted to _help_ you.”

“I get it,” he keeps his voice calm, “but I need a break.”

Her eyes are shining as she watches him take a step back. “Wait, Billy—“

“It wasn’t yours to tell,” he tells her. “I just need a break.”

He doesn’t listen when she calls out to him again. Just goes, feeling desperately alone.

—

Steve is, as usual, already behind the desk when Billy gets there on Sunday. He doesn't know what to do, feels like something's changed since yesterday. He’s still shaky and nervous, wonders if he ever won’t be.

He shucks his coat and drapes it over the back of his chair. They don't usually say hello, but Billy feels like maybe he should, now. The time to do so passes though, so he just pulls his laptop out and scoots his chair forward to do some reading. 

He bats absently at the hair in his face; it's getting long. Steve clears his throat next to him. Billy startles and turns to face him—he's holding out a dark hair tie. Billy stares at it. Steve shakes it insistently under his nose. 

“I,” he croaks, shaking his head, “my dad hates when I put my hair up.”

“Your dad’s not here,” Steve tells him, shaking the hair tie at him again. Billy feels stunned. Cautiously, he reaches out a trembling hand to take it from him. Feels Steve watch him as he pulls his hair back into a haphazard bun. 

His head feels odd—lighter, somehow. He turns it, tilts side to side. Steve's mouth quirks up and Billy blushes. Clears his throat and turns back to his reading, finally able to see in front of him. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly, without looking over. Steve doesn't respond. 

It's pretty much silent for the next hour, until Steve starts shaking his highlighter violently. Billy looks up and stares at him. Steve sighs, chucking it and letting it roll off the desk. 

“It's dead,” he says. Billy bites the inside of his cheek. He has an extra. 

After a brief deliberation, he bends to dig it out of his bag, hands it to Steve with a tense quirk of his mouth. Steve takes it, nodding at him in thanks, and goes back to what he was doing. 

They don't speak for the rest of the shift. 

—

Billy avoids Robin for a whole week. When Sunday rolls around again, he feels rundown and lonely. He doesn’t know how to dig himself out of this hole—he wants Robin around, wants things to go back to the way they were. Knows they can’t.

He’s tying his hair back with Steve’s hair tie when he pushes open the doors to Student Services. Steve looks up from the desk, giving him a tight smile. Billy slumps in his seat, pulls out his laptop.

“Robin says you won’t talk to her,” Steve says. His tone is bland, like he’s discussing the weather. Billy doesn’t look at him.

“She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone,” keeps his voice pitched low, keeps his tone steady. Tries to project calm though he’s roiling inside.

“I get it,” Steve replies, “I would have been pissed in your position.”

“Then what is this conversation about?” Billy grinds out, abandoning the pretense. He didn’t have a good grasp on it anyway.

“You need friends, Billy,” Steve’s turned towards him, though Billy keeps his eyes averted. “Whether you want them or not. Yea, Robin did a shitty thing—but she did it to try to help you.” 

Billy’s throat is burning. “You know who else did a shitty thing to try to help me? My _dad_. When he sent me to that—place.” He spits it out, flexing his fists.

When Billy finally looks over, Steve looks shocked. Billy takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.

“You don’t get it,” he finally murmurs, “I should have been able to control who knew. It was _my_ thing. I don’t know you guys.”

“So get to know us.” 

Billy blinks at Steve, not expecting that response. Steve looks more determined in the face of Billy’s silence.

“You’re right, that we don’t get it,” Steve tells him, “and you’re right that you should have gotten to control who found out. We can’t give it back though. And out of everyone on this campus, the people Robin told may be the closest you’ll get to someone understanding how you feel.”

They watch each other for a moment. Billy swallows. He’s an island, alone and surrounded by shark infested waters. It feels like Steve’s offering him a life raft. It’s not perfect, but it’s his best bet to survive.

—

He goes to find Robin the next day. She’s in the art studio, looking morose as she leans over whatever she’s scratching at on the table. He clears his throat, stays by the door with his hands in his pockets. She looks up.

“Hey,” she breathes. He nods uncomfortably.

“Hey,” he says, “we should talk.”

“Yea,” she scrambles a bit, wiping her hands off on a towel, gesturing at his usual stool, “yea, I wanna talk.”

He sits down carefully, doesn’t look directly at her. Knows she’s waiting for him to speak. He heaves a sigh, his hands still tucked in his pockets.

“I need you to understand,” he tells her, “that what you did was wrong. I trusted you with something and you just—handed it out to people I didn’t know. And I know—“ he raises a hand to stop her from protesting. “I know you wanted to help me. But I have enough people in my life trying to help me by going behind my back and doing things I don’t want.”

Robin swallows. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

“I know,” he sighs, “which is why I don’t want to hold it against you. But you can’t do it again, I won’t be able to handle it.”

She nods hastily, standing. “I won’t. I’m _so _sorry, Billy.”

She picks at her hands, shuffling forward a bit. Billy doesn’t move, just watches her.

“So then,” she looks at him from under her lashes, “does that mean we’re okay?”

“We’re fine,” he tells her, managing to drag a smile out of somewhere. Robin takes another few steps forward, and when he doesn’t stop her, she wraps him in a hug. He feels better. 


	3. Chapter 3

Despite his reservations, Billy starts seeing a lot of Steve’s friends in the following weeks. Jonathan hangs out in the studio with him and Robin sometimes, and Billy quickly becomes comfortable with his inane chatter; Nancy invites him to study in the library with her friend Barb, and though all they do is sit quietly and work, Billy feels better not being alone. Sundays are better too: he sits with Carol and Tommy during mass, and actually exchanges a few words with Steve during his shift. 

“What’s with you tonight?” Steve’s been watching him bounce his knee and snap his rubber band for the past hour. Billy looks over at him, snaps his rubber band again. 

Thanksgiving is next week, and Billy’s not sure he wants to go home. He doesn’t know how to tell Steve that though, so he just shrugs, turns away and ignores him. Snaps his rubber band harder. 

It’s only a few minutes later that a hand snaps out and grabs Billy’s hand, effectively stopping his nervous movements. Billy startles, pulls back on instinct, his heart beating hard behind his ribs. Steve hasn’t touched him since he helped him off the ground at Our Lady. He can feel the heat creeping up his neck.

“Man, seriously, stop snapping that thing,” Steve looks mildly annoyed, “I can’t concentrate. Either tell me what’s going on or calm down.”

Billy’s hand twitches towards his band again. He flexes his fist.

“I’m uh,” he clears his throat, eyes flickering nervously over Steve’s face and skittering away, “I’m not really looking forward to break.”

“Oh.” Steve’s quiet for a moment. Billy waits, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

“Your dad?” Steve asks carefully. Billy closes his eyes, breathes deep through his nose. Nods. “You can tell me if you want.”

He can’t help it; he snaps the band again. Steve watches him do it. Billy stays still for a second, just breathing as he decides what to do. He’s never talked about this before, not even Robin knows. 

Finally, he takes a shuddering breath, and lifts his shirts up to expose the scar on his side. The bruises have long faded, leaving the healed gash in stark relief against his skin. Steve sucks in a harsh breath. Billy can see his hands jerk towards him out of the corner of his eye, but they never meet his skin. He lets the shirts drop, snaps the band again.

“It wasn’t deep,” he says softly, “but it hurt like all get out.”

“Why the hell did he do that?” Steve sounds wounded. Billy can’t look at him. Keeps snapping his band.

“He, um,” Billy can’t breathe, doesn’t know how to say this out loud. “I had a friend. Peter.”

Steve looks like he knows what’s coming but he doesn’t want to hear it. Billy suddenly can’t stop talking.

“We were just friends,” he tells him, “we studied together a lot. There weren’t a lot of places to go on the community campus, so we usually went to his house, but—I don’t know. We were at mine for some reason, I can’t remember. My dad just… Got mad, seeing us there. That’s why, um. That’s why he sent me to camp. After I got out of the hospital.”

Steve’s mouth is open, his brown eyes sad. He looks like he wants to touch Billy again. He hopes he doesn’t—thinks he might shatter if he does. 

“You can’t,” Billy snaps hard at the rubber band, “you can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Steve says. Billy’s heart is still beating too hard. They’re both quiet for a second. He times his breathing to Steve’s, trying to calm down. He jumps when Steve moves again, pulling out his phone. He offers it to Billy, a new message open on the screen. “Put your number in.”

Billy takes it warily, inputting the phone number and handing it back to Steve, who taps for a second.

“I sent you a message so you have mine,” Steve tells him. He looks seriously at Billy. “I’m staying on campus for break. If you need an out, just ask.”

“Thanks,” Billy says, feeling oddly touched. Steve nods, giving him a small smile, then turns back to his work. Billy takes his cue, going back to his own reading. The next two hours pass in comfortable silence; Billy feels oddly settled. Feels like he doesn’t have to hold all his hurt alone. 

He jumps in his seat when Steve curses, looking over to see Steve’s hands covered in ink, the pen he had been holding abandoned on the desk. Billy can’t help it. He laughs, a loud cackle that shocks him and Steve both. Steve’s lips quirk up involuntarily at the sound, but he glares playfully at him. Billy’s mouth is stretched wide in an involuntary grin.

“Smooth,” he says, reaching into the drawer for some tissues. Steve rolls his eyes as he takes them from him, wiping aggressively at his hands.

“Yea, that’s me,” he snarks, “Captain Smooth.”

Billy keeps grinning at him, kicks the trashcan closer to Steve so he can dump the inky tissues in it. 

“Do you have a pen I can borrow?” Steve sighs, his hands still stained black but no longer sticky. Billy digs one out of his bag, his grin fading a bit. He pulls it back as Steve reaches for it. Looks at him seriously.

“Can I trust you with this?” He keeps his voice as even as he can. Steve blinks at him, then rolls his eyes. He snatches the pen with a tiny smile.

“Asshole,” he murmurs. Billy feels buoyant. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this, especially around another boy. Not just calm, but actively happy. He doesn’t want it to end. Keeps watching Steve out of the corner of his eye for the rest of his shift, eyes on his long fingers, his floppy brown hair, his big brown eyes. Lingering on his broad shoulders. His heart stutters. Doesn’t snap his rubber band again for the rest of the shift.

—

“You guys should come to the apartment tomorrow night,” Jonathan tells them. He’s watching Billy haul the remains of an old couch around Robin’s studio while Robin decides where she wants it. She keeps changing her mind. Billy’s sweating through his sweatshirt. “Nancy’s been dying to see the new Aladdin and Steve finally got the DVD, so.”

“Sounds cool,” Robin says. She shakes her head. “No, I don’t like that. Can you put it over there?”

Deep breath. Heave. Pull.

“Perfect!” She chirps. Billy drops the end he’s holding and collapses on top of it, breathing deep. Finally. He’s been doing this for over an hour. 

“Who else is going?” He asks Jonathan between breaths. 

“Should just be Nancy and Barb,” Jonathan says, “and Steve, obviously. You gonna come?”

Billy shrugs noncommittally. He wouldn’t miss it, but he can’t tell them that. They already see him as fragile and weak. Robin rolls her eyes down at him.

“We’ll be there,” she tells him firmly. Jonathan shoots her a smile, glancing at his phone. He stands.

“My photos are done, I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he waves at them as he leaves. Robin watches him go, then whirls to face Billy.

“Your ears are red,” she informs him. Billy blinks up at her and struggles into a sitting position.

“Pretty sure all of me is red,” he grumbles, “I’ve been dragging this thing around for an hour.”

“No, just your ears,” she squints, coming closer to drag a finger around the shell. He swats at her. “Are you—_blushing_?”

Billy just blushes harder. “No.”

“Oh my god,” she breathes, “you totally are! If I guess why do I get a prize?”

“_No_,” he insists, “because there is no why, since I’m not blushing.”

She hums, flopping down on the couch next to him. Narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You don’t like Jonathan, do you?”

Billy chokes, feeling sure that if he wasn’t blushing before, he definitely is now. His chest feels hot. “Robin, _no._”

“Okay, okay,” she flaps a hand, “but I just hope you know: if you _did_ have a crush on a boy—say, Steve, for instance—that would be okay and I wouldn’t judge you for it.”

He avoids her eyes, willing his chest to expand. His hand sneaks towards his rubber band, and she reaches out to grab it before he can start snapping. Quirks a small smile in his direction. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Don’t tell him,” he whispers, “don’t say _anything_. I mean it, Robin.”

“I won’t, Billy,” she pats his arm gently, “it’s okay. It’s good, actually. Means those assholes at the camp don’t get to win.”

They sit in silence for a while, Robin rubbing a soothing hand up and down his arm. Billy slumps a little in his seat, eyelids heavy. Thinks maybe he could fall asleep like this. He does.

—

Billy’s nervous all day. He jiggles and taps his way through his classes, barely absorbing anything and taking no notes. He can’t help the rabbiting of his heart at the thought of being in the same room as everyone—for the first time since the disastrous CSU party. Individually, he could tentatively consider them all friends now, or friendly acquaintances at the very least. He hasn’t ever been around them all together, save the once, and it’s making him ache. Maybe he just shouldn’t go.

“Hey sunshine!” He turns to see Robin coming up behind him in his dorm. They hadn’t planned on meeting here. 

“Hey,” he says tentatively, “what are you doing here?”

She shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna bail.”

He looks over at her guiltily. She’s smiling up at him. The tightness in his chest eases a little.

“It’s fine,” she tells him, reaching over to pat his arm, “I sorta got that you’re not big on group things. Figured you might feel better if we walked over together.”

He stops to stare at her, shocked. She doesn’t realize he’s stopped until she’s just in front of him, then she turns, her mouth quirked curiously. He shakes for a moment, then reaches out to grab her in a hug. He’s still shaking when her hands come up to pat him on the back. He breathes deeply, smells her perfume, and feels overwhelmed.

“It’s okay,” she’s whispering into his hair, “it’s okay.”

Finally, he pulls back, batting his locks out of his face to give her an unsteady smile. She returns it brightly, keeps her arm around his waist as she tugs him towards his door.

He still feels nervous on the walk over, but he feels anchored now, where before he was afloat and drifting. He lets her talk the whole way over, nodding and interjecting where he needs to. Just lets her voice soothe him.

Steve answers the door when Robin knocks, his full mouth stretched over a grin. He’s chewing, has a handful of popcorn in one hand.

“Hey guys!” He waves them forward, shuts the door behind them. Waits while they take off their shoes, then leads them into the living room. 

Nancy and Jonathan are already curled up on the loveseat, Barb across from them on the armchair. Robin beelines for the couch, sitting into the corner nearest Nancy, who turns to greet her with a smile. Billy shuffles awkwardly, not sure where to sit. Steve taps his shoulder, and he turns with a twitch. Steve’s still smiling at him.

“Middle or end?” He asks, shoving more popcorn in his mouth. Billy swallows, shoving his hands into his kangaroo pouch and willing himself to stop shaking.

“Um, end,” he decides. He can see Jonathan watching the interaction, knows the other boy caught his shaking hands. Steve nods, plopping down next to Robin and dragging the popcorn off the floor into his lap. Billy sits next to him, stiff, perched on the edge, and holds his breath. The lights are off, the glow of the TV illuminating everyone’s faces. Robin makes a grab for the popcorn as Steve lifts the remote.

“Okay, ladies and worms,” Steve announces loudly, “There will be no talking during our presentation, no pausing, no rewinding, and _no singing_.”

He turns to glare at Jonathan as he says the last part, who just shrugs noncommittally. Nancy giggles behind her hand, and Billy sees Barb roll her eyes when he looks over. 

“Steve, just start the movie,” Barb sounds annoyed, but Billy had learned quickly that this was just her natural state. Steve grumbles a little and presses play, dropping the remote onto the couch between him and Robin and leaning back. 

Billy watches the opening sequence, leaning against the arm of the couch, his whole body turned away from the boy next to him. He kind of regrets taking the end seat, thinks he probably could’ve relaxed a bit sitting next to Robin. 

It takes him until Aladdin reaches the cave of wonders to finally lean his back against the back of the couch, though he stays as far from Steve as he can, crushing himself into the corner. He’s barely digesting the movie, paying more attention to Steve out of the corner of his eye. He breathes carefully through his nose, tries to be inconspicuous about it. Doesn’t want the room to know he’s on the verge of panicking. His hand sneaks towards the rubber band under his sleeve. 

He stills as Steve’s hand suddenly grabs his wrist, wrapping tight around the rubber band. Steve’s not looking at him, seemingly fully engrossed in the movie. Billy’s heart might actually beat out of his chest. He tugs experimentally at his hand, but Steve just grips him tighter. Billy can’t look away from Steve, watches his chest rise and fall, tries to match his own breathing to Steve’s.

It takes him a while, but he finally starts to relax. He tunes in as Aladdin starts rambling about jam—he understands the feeling. Steve’s still holding his arm when Billy shifts a little, leaning out of the corner a little bit. Billy feels insane, holding his breath and trying to inch closer without anyone noticing. He freezes when Steve lets go of him, watches in terror as the other boy puts the empty popcorn bowl on the ground and turns to face Billy. His heart stutters in his jugular when Steve leans forward.

“There’s a blanket behind you,” Steve whispers, “can you grab it.”

Billy’s jaw feels hot. He turns around to get the blanket off the back of the couch and hands it to Steve, who unfolds it and hands him a corner. He takes it tentatively, spreading it over his lap. His breath still feels frozen as he watches Steve settle again, feels kinda dirty sneaking a little bit closer to him under the blanket. 

By the time the credits roll, Billy has no idea what’s happened. He probably caught about thirteen percent of the actual movie in between worrying that he was too close to Steve and desperately wanting to get just a little bit closer. Steve leans forward to stretch, and Billy watches his dorky polo ride up the small of his back as he does so.

“Well, Nance?” Steve’s asking. Billy tunes back in, knowing his ears are burning bright red. He's grateful he wore his hair down. Nancy’s smiling; Jonathan looks bleary-eyed and half-asleep.

“It was good,” she says, “better than Beauty and the Beast.”

This elicits a groan from Barb. He watches Steve puff up, the back of the other boy’s neck going red.

“You take that back,” he hisses. 

“Now you’ve got him started,” Barb snarks. Billy watches the volley, confused.

“I just think they did better with this one,” Nancy protests, “It was less a shot-for-shot remake. I liked the changes!”

“There’s nothing wrong with a shot-for-shot remake,” Steve answers hotly, “they would have been crucified if they tried to make any drastic changes. Besides, they did that thing with the revolution!”

“You know I didn’t care about that!” Nancy rolls her eyes. “Also, the actors in this movie were way stronger singers than in Beauty and the Beast.”

Steve gapes at her. “You’re crazy!”

Barb leans over to Billy as Steve and Nancy continue to bicker. “They’ve had this argument forty times. Can you slap him so he’ll shut up?”

Billy blinks, offers her his best approximation of a smirk. “I’m not sure that’ll really do much to deter him.”

Barb sighs. “Maybe not.” She raises her voice above the argument. “Who’s ordering pizza?”

Steve turns to glare at her. Barb just stares him down until Steve finally huffs and pulls his phone out. Nancy looks smug.

Billy looks over at Barb, leans down towards her while the rest of them bicker in the back. “Hey, um, I just wanted to say sorry—for being an asshole when we met.”

  
Barb raises an eyebrow. “It’s fine. I get that there was more going on there.”

Billy heaves a sigh, feeling relieved. Barb’s still watching him. She leans forward so only he can hear her.

“Just don’t fuck up again.”

—

Steve has spent the last two days on the couch in his pajamas. It’s eight o’clock on Friday, and the only time he’s moved from his position in front of the TV all day was to answer the door for his food and use the bathroom. He feels good. Lazy. Which is why, when the door buzzer goes off, he nearly jumps a foot out of his skin. He’s not expecting anyone.

“Uh, hello?” He asks into the voice piece. There’s static on the other end, and then a voice speaks.

_“Um, it’s Billy,_” he sounds nervous, and Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, “_Can I come up?”_

Steve shakes himself out of his confusion. “Yea sure, I’ll buzz you in.”

He does so, then opens the door and leans against the frame to wait for the other boy. He’d thought Billy had gone home for break. It takes a minute, but when the other boy appears out of the stairwell, he’s limping slightly. Steve’s heart kicks up, and he feels too hot suddenly. The feeling is quickly replaced by cold when Billy finally stops in front of him. His eye is swollen shut, his lip split. 

Steve sets his mouth in a grim line, reaches out to usher Billy into the apartment. “You’d better come inside.”

“I’m sorry,” Billy’s saying thickly, “Robin’s not back yet and I—didn’t want to be alone.”

Steve points to the couch, watches as Billy sits down gingerly, cradling his left side. “Don’t apologize, I told you to let me know if you needed something. Let me get some ice.”

He hurries into the kitchen, grabbing two ice packs and a bag of frozen corn out of the freezer. He doesn’t say anything as he comes back into the living room, just sits next to Billy and hands him the ice. Billy takes them one at a time, draping the corn and one of the ice packs over his side, then leaning his head back to cover his swollen face with the last one. Steve watches him do it, his heart thudding hard behind his ribs.

“What happened?” Steve asks quietly. Doesn’t want to speak too loud, shatter the boy sitting next to him. Billy draws a shuddering breath, clutching at the ice on his ribs.

“I, um,” his voice shakes, slurred around his fat lip, “Dad drinks on holidays. ’S usually easier to stay out of his way, except then he expects me to clean up.”

He trails off, one big blue eye peeking out from under the ice pack on the side of his face. He looks tired.

“I’ve had worse,” he mumbles. Steve doesn’t know what to do here. 

“Do you think we should go to the hospital?” He asks worriedly. Billy looks scared suddenly, shaking his head and struggling to sit up. Steve lurches forward to press him back gently by the shoulders. Billy’s watching him with wide eyes.

“No hospitals,” he says. Sounds like a mantra.

“Fine,” Steve sighs, heaving the breath deep out of his lungs. His heart’s still beating too hard, feels shaky with adrenaline. Feels like he should do something. “Can you at least show me your ribs?”

“They’re not broken,” Billy grumbles. Doesn’t move to lift his shirt. Steve’s not sure he likes how certain he sounds. He reaches out to tug gently at the hem of the grey sweatshirt Billy’s _always_ wearing.

“Show me,” he implores. Billy looks at him from his exposed eye; Steve feels judged, suddenly not sure he’ll pass whatever test he’s being given under Billy’s scrutiny.

After a long moment, Billy sighs, wheezing slightly, and dumps the ice onto the couch next to Steve. He moves slowly, his battered face contorting as he raises the shirts up. Steve helps him push them up his chest, careful not to touch skin. 

Billy’s left side is dark purple, one giant bruise. There are red splotches scattered under his skin, and Steve can barely see the scar he knows lives on Billy’s chest. He sucks in a breath, his heart leaping into his throat. After a moment, he grabs the ice pack off the couch and presses it to Billy’s bare skin. Billy hisses loudly, watching Steve’s hands.

“Do you want some ibuprofen?” Steve asks him. Billy nods, reaching down to hold the ice pack in place so Steve can let go.

Steve stands over him for a moment. Billy looks up, realizing that Steve hasn’t moved.

“What?” He prompts. Steve swallows.

“You have blood on your sweatshirt,” he tells Billy. Billy looks down, mouth twisting as he picks at it with his free hand.

“From my lip,” he murmurs, voice wobbling. 

“I can get you something else to wear,” Steve says, “we can wash it.”

Billy screws up his face, looking like he might cry. Doesn’t. Nods instead. Steve walks away to give him a moment.

He goes to his room, digs through his closet to find an old green Hawkins High Basketball sweatshirt. He throws it over his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom, getting the ibuprofen out of the medicine cabinet and then going to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He comes back and hands it to Billy, taps out four pills and hands them over too.

Billy swallows them with a wince, his tongue darting out to swipe over his lip. Steve takes the glass from him, sets it down on the coffee table behind him.

“Sit up a bit,” he instructs, reaching over to help Billy shove his arm through the soiled sweatshirt. The ice slips off his ribs, leaving him in just a dark blue henley. He looks oddly small like that. Steve doesn’t comment, just scrunches up the new sweatshirt and helps Billy get his arms in, then pulls it over the other boy’s head while Billy groans and squirms. 

Billy flops back against the couch with a wince, dragging the sweatshirt down to his waist. He leans his head back as Steve takes his seat next to him again. Lets Steve help him reposition the ice over his face and side. Steve sits back to survey him. Billy watches him back with one blue eye.

“I was um,” Steve hesitates, “I was watching _Gilmore Girls_ when you buzzed—do you wanna watch for a bit?”

He sees Billy’s mouth quirk a bit under the ice pack. “I’ve never seen it.”

Steve lets his mouth drop open in mock horror. “It’s the _best_. You’re gonna love it, okay.”

He grabs the remote and settles back next to Billy, offering him a corner of the blanket he drags over his lap. He presses play.

—

Steve wakes sometime later, feeling heavy. Billy’s head is on his shoulder, his hair tickling Steve’s neck. He’s breathing soft and slow, a tiny snore escaping out of his mouth on the inhale. The ice packs have slipped off his body, and Steve’s sleeve is wet where the corn has thawed against it. He doesn’t know if he should move.

It doesn’t take long for him to get bored, feeling stiff from staying in the same position too long. He uses the arm Billy’s leaning against to tap him gently on the leg, the corn packet rustling as he moves. Billy wakes slowly, and then all at once. His sleepy grumbling turns into a pained yelp as he lurches backwards on the couch, leaning as far away from Steve as he can. His eyes are wild as he looks at Steve. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, his hands held up like his thinks Steve might hit him, “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Steve assures him, watches Billy’s chest heave. He reaches out a little, halting when Billy leans further away from him. “I’m not going to hurt you, Billy. We fell asleep, it happens.”

Steve turns away from Billy, hoping that if he’s not being watched he’ll calm down. He grabs his phone; it’s three am. He drags a hand over his face. 

“I’m going to sleep in Jonathan’s room,” he tells Billy, not looking at him yet, “You can take my bed.”

“I don’t—“ Steve looks over at him, cutting him off.

“Don’t argue, man,” he murmurs. In the dark, this late at night, it feels like he has to be quiet. Billy still looks shaky and nervous. Steve turns away again, standing and taking Billy’s empty glass to the kitchen to refill it. He grabs a banana on the way back. Hands both to Billy, then taps out another four pills from the bottle on the table. “Shouldn’t take this many on an empty stomach.”

He walks away when Billy starts peeling the banana, going into his room to find Billy a pair of pants to wear to bed. When he comes back, Billy has gathered the soupy ice packs and thawed corn into a stack, the empty peel on top. Steve trades him the pants for the trash, taking it into the kitchen to put it away. He comes back to Billy, still on the couch, worrying the seam of the pants in his hands. He offers Billy a hand up.

“Come on,” Steve says softly, “If I’m tired, you must be exhausted.”

—

When Billy wakes up on Saturday, he’s in a strange bed, wearing strange clothes, and his head is pounding. It comes back slowly; his dad’s looming face, the harried drive back to campus, the desperate feeling when Steve touched him. His ribs ache. 

He stares at the ceiling another minute, then sighs and rolls himself out of the bed. He grunts when his feet hit the ground, his arm coming up to wrap around his tender ribs. He reaches for the sweatshirt Steve gave him last night to replace his, getting one arm through it before he has to stop, breathing hard. He struggles, tiny, involuntary yelps escaping his mouth. Finally, he gives up, shuffling slowly out of the room with one arm still in the sweatshirt. 

Steve’s sitting on the couch when he walks in; he looks up when he hears Billy arrive. He puts his coffee cup down as soon as he sees him, lurching off the couch towards Billy.

“I can’t get it on,” Billy grumbles, gesturing with his one arm, the sweatshirt waving like a flag. Steve looks torn between laughter and sympathy. He takes the sweatshirt off Billy’s arm, scrunches it up.

“Okay, lean forward,” Steve saying, reaching up to pull the sweatshirt over Billy’s head. Once it’s on, he carefully maneuvers Billy’s arms into the holes, wincing in sympathy as Billy whines. He’s panting again by the time Steve’s done.

“Where’s, um, where’s the ibuprofen?” He asks. The swelling of his eye has gone down, so he can see out of it again, but his lip still feels too large for his mouth.

“On the table still,” Steve answers, moving towards the kitchen, “You want coffee or something?”

“Um,” Billy’s throat clicks as he swallows, “I’m not allowed to drink coffee.”

Steve stops where he was in the middle of getting a mug down from the cabinet, puts it on the counter and turns to look at Billy. He feels exposed, like Steve can see every part of him. Grips a tight fist around the sweatshirt where he’s still holding his side.

“Okay,” Steve starts cautiously, “Do you _like_ coffee?”

Billy’s heart jumps, shocked. “I don’t know.”

Steve nods. He reaches for the pot, pours some into the bright red mug by his hand. He holds it out to Billy, who looks at it warily before taking it carefully. He stares down into the dark liquid.

“Only one way to find out,” Steve tells him, his mouth quirked in a gentle smile, “It’s not _good_ coffee, but coffee’s pretty much all the same.”

Billy keeps his eyes down, brings the mug to his lips. The liquid is warm, rich, and bitter. He makes a face as he swallows it down. Steve’s grinning when he looks up.

“No?” He asks. Billy shakes his head, offering the mug back to him. “That’s okay, we have juice and stuff if you want. Are you hungry?”

“Juice is good,” Billy says, “and, um. Yea.”

His stomach makes itself known with a loud growl, as if it knew it was being talked about. Steve’s grin stretches impossibly wider. 

“Pancakes? I can’t cook for shit, but we can get uber eats from Denny’s.” Steve’s already pulling out his phone. Billy doesn’t bother with the protest on his tongue—Steve doesn’t seem to care what his dad thinks, and Billy thinks that might be a good thing.

“What do you want?” Steve angles the phone so Billy can choose his breakfast. He feels a little thrilled, like he’s doing something wrong but doesn’t care—not his usual panic at the idea that someone might report back to his dad that he’s stepped out of line. He knows Steve won’t tell on him.

After they order their food, Billy lets Steve lead him back into the living room. He lowers himself gingerly onto the couch, wincing at the lancing pain in his side and gratefully accepting the juice and ibuprofen Steve hands him. Steve now has two cups of coffee, seeming not to mind as he finishes the last swallow of the first one and leaning back next to Billy with the second in his hands. He can’t help but watch as Steve takes a tiny sip, his brown hair curling sweetly at his neck and flopping over his forehead. His heart is thundering in his chest.

Steve looks over at him with a smile. “Wanna watch something?”

Billy swallows, hopes his ears aren’t too red. “Can we keep watching _Gilmore Girls_?”

Steve’s grin is brilliant; Billy’s heart leaps into his throat and stays there. 

—

The key turning in the lock startles both Steve and Billy, who haven’t moved from the couch in hours. _Gilmore Girls_ is still playing on the TV, and Steve pauses it hastily. Billy’s looking at him, a little panicked, clutching tightly to his tender ribs. They look over when Jonathan walks into the room, Nancy hot on his heels; their smiles fade instantly when they take in Billy on the couch next to Steve. Nancy looks like she might cry, dumping her bag at her feet.

“Billy,” she whispers, frozen in place, “what _happened_?”

She takes a stumbling step forward, her hand out like she wants to touch. Steve jolts into action, standing in front of Billy with his hands out protectively. Nancy makes a wounded noise, looking up into Steve’s face.

“Don’t,” Steve says, “He’s hurt.”

“I can _see_ that he’s hurt!” Nancy yelps shrilly. Jonathan steps up behind her like a shadow. “I want to know why!”

Steve sighs. “We can talk about this, but you have to stay calm.”

Jonathan puts a hand on Nancy’s shoulder, his mouth a grim line. “Let’s all sit down, huh?”

Nancy looks like she might protest, but acquiesces at the look on Steve’s face. She and Jonathan pick their way over to the love seat, and Steve drops back down next to Billy on the couch, a hot line against Billy’s side. Steve looks over at him, a silent _you or me?_. Billy can’t breathe, isn’t sure what would come out if he tries to talk. His eyes flick nervously over to Nancy, whose fists are balled on her jiggling knees. Steve turns to face them too.

“His dad hit him,” Steve tells them, sounding like he’s trying to keep his voice calm for the sake of everyone in the room. He looks at Billy, who’s avoiding eye contact with everyone. “And it’s not the first time.”

“Are you okay?” Nancy asks Billy. He looks up at her, swallows harshly around the lump in his throat.

“Um, I’ll be fine,” he says. She doesn’t look like that’s enough, so he says, “Nothing’s broken.”

Even Jonathan looks shocked at that. Billy doesn’t know what he said wrong, looks at Steve for help. Steve sighs.

“You guys have to calm down,” he interjects, “we can’t talk about this if you’re gonna make him nervous.”

Billy isn’t sure what that means, thinks maybe Steve’s protecting him. His heart flutters. Nancy still looks ready to burst into tears.

“What do we do?” She asks. “He can’t go home for winter break if this is just gonna happen again.”

“It’s not your choice, Nancy,” Steve snaps, “we can’t make the decision for him.”

Billy shifts uncomfortably; everything sounds too loud. Jonathan looks over at him, his eyes piercing.

“Do you want to go home?” His voice is soft. Billy struggles. Doesn’t know how to answer the question.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he mumbles finally. Jonathan sighs.

“If it’s not a yes, it’s a no.” 

“I have to go home,” Billy says. “My dad pays for school, I can’t not go home.”

“Would he come here?” Steve asks him. Billy takes his lip between his teeth, spits it back out at the sharp jab of pain.

“He might,” he tells him. Jonathan sits forward.

“Where do you live, Billy?”

Billy glances at Steve again. “Um, Clarkesville. It’s like three hours from here.”

Jonathan and Nancy exchange a look. Nancy looks at Billy apprehensively.

“Would you want to come stay with us for a few days?” She asks carefully. “Jonathan and I both live in Roane, it’s only a few hours from Clarkesville.”

Billy feels overwhelmed, suddenly. Struggles to get the words out around a clumsy tongue. “Your, um—your parents won’t mind?”

Jonathan smiles at him, brown eyes crinkling. “Nah, my mom loves having people over. She’s adopted my little brother’s whole brat pack.”

“You have a little brother?” Billy blurts. Jonathan looks surprised by the question.

“Yea, he’s about to turn thirteen,” he says, “do you?”

Billy shakes his head. “I have a step sister, Max. She’s about the same age.”

Jonathan shrugs. “She can come too, if you want.”

Billy snorts before he knows what he’s doing. “My dad would never let that happen.”

“Well, we can hammer out the details later,” Jonathan waves a hand, “are you staying here tonight?”

“Yes,” Steve answers for him. Billy looks at him, a little shocked. “Don’t look at me like that, I don’t trust you alone with those ribs.”

Billy grumbles a little. “Fine, but I’m taking the couch this time.”

“No,” Steve says blandly. Billy narrows his eyes.

“What happened to not making decisions for me?” He blurts. It comes out—sharp. Snarkier than he meant. He doesn’t know where the confidence comes from.

“This couch is a thousand years old,” Steve informs him, “you’re not sleeping on it in your condition.”

Billy huffs, settling back against the couch. Knows Steve’s right, thinks maybe it’d be okay to take him up on his offer. Nancy’s watching them. When it becomes clear Billy doesn’t have any more protests, she pulls out her phone.

“We were gonna order pizza for dinner,” she says, “Any preferences?”

—

“Steve and Jonathan are having a party,” Robin tells him. Billy knows this already, having been invited by Steve himself on Sunday. The semester is rapidly coming to a close, and Billy and Robin have barely seen each other in weeks; she’s been holed up in her studio working on her final projects, while Billy has been spending all his time in the library with Nancy trying to get a grasp on concepts he doesn’t actually care about.

“Steve told me,” he answers, watching her throw paint at the old couch. She stops, looks at him. She’s grinning.

“Oh he _did_?” She sounds way too smug. He narrows his eyes. 

“We work together,” he informs her. She scoffs.

“Yea, okay,” she turns back to keep flinging paint, “and he takes care of you when you’re hurt, and he buys you food, and he invites you places—it’s almost like you’re _friends._”

Billy snorts, picking at a splotch of dried paint on the table in front of him. “Pretty sure you’re my only friend.”

Robin heaves a deep sigh, flinging the next glob of paint with a particular viciousness. 

“Right, that’s why I’ve gotten texts from Nancy, Jonathan, _and_ Barb telling me in no uncertain terms that you have to come on Friday,” she tells him. His heart thuds, surprised.

“They all really want me to come?” He blurts. He had told Steve he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t really interested in going. Steve hadn’t seemed to care either way. Robin turns to look at him, a bright red streak of paint on one cheek.

“Billy, you may not have noticed, but they consider you their friend,” she puts her messy hands on her hips, her paintbrush dripping onto the floor. There’s paint in her hair too. He shifts uncomfortably, keeps his eyes down. She sighs.

“It won’t be like last time,” she says, “Everything’s out in the open now, you have nothing to lose.”

He shrugs, feeling a little warm. “I’m just not big on crowds.”

“I know,” she eyes the couch critically, “but again, we’ll all be there. I’m sure if you get overwhelmed Steve or Jonathan will let you hide in their room.”

“I don’t hide,” he mumbles, a little petulant. She snorts, stepping forward to dunk her brush again.

“Yes you do,” she says blandly, “It doesn’t really matter, this could be good for you. You’ve been trapped in the library practically all month.”

“I was with Nancy,” he protests, “that’s social.”

“No,” she tells him, lifting her arm to fling hard, “Because I also talk to Nancy, and _she_ says if you talk it’s about class or homework or whatever, which is boring.”

He huffs, blowing a stray hair out of his eyes. He’s been wearing it up more, preferring to keep it out of his eyes.

“I’ll consider it,” he finally agrees. He doesn’t need to look at Robin to know she’s smiling.

—

Steve’s standing at the counter, drinking tequila and coke out of a red solo cup. Nancy’s next to him, her own cup full of apple vodka. This is her third, and her eyes are bleary as she grins up at him and chatters. Jonathan’s somewhere else in the apartment, probably making sure Barb doesn’t get into a fist fight with Carol—she’s been known to try after one too many. 

Steve’s not really drinking. He’s been nursing the same cup for the better part of an hour, his eyes periodically flicking towards the open apartment door as he waits for—he doesn’t know. He smiles at Nancy, tries to listen to what she’s saying. Can’t concentrate. Makes an excuse to walk away. 

He finds Tommy sprawled across the couch in the living room, Charlie, from Steve’s Monday morning class, running his mouth about some sports thing Steve doesn’t care about. Steve keeps moving, not bothering to interject himself into the conversation. He heads toward the bathroom, shutting the door on the noise for a second. He glares at himself in the mirror.

“What’s wrong with you?” He mutters. Fluffs his hair, feels unsettled. He’s deciding whether or not to just dump his cup when there’s a knock on the door. He abandons the cup on the counter.

“Robin’s here,” Jonathan’s also sober, because someone has to be. Steve leans against the door, his heart thudding.

“Alone?” He asks. Jonathan just quirks a smile at him. 

Steve pushes past him out of the bathroom, turning the corner to see Robin and Billy by the door. Robin’s saying something to him, her hand gripped tight around his bicep—he’s not wearing his sweatshirt, just jeans and a dark blue button up. He’s hunched down, looks like he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is. Steve can feel a smile creeping onto his face without his permission. He makes his way over to them.

“You came!” Tries not feel sad when Billy startles, looking up at Steve with bright blue eyes. He plows forward. “I didn’t think you would.”

Billy looks at Robin, like he’s asking permission to speak. “I didn’t think so either.”

Steve grins, shoves his hands in his pockets. Tries to appear nonthreatening.

“You guys want a drink?” He asks. Billy shakes his head, but Robin releases him.

“I can get my own,” she says, moving towards the kitchen. She leaves Steve and Billy standing by the door. Billy looks awkward, tugging at his sleeves. Steve’s not sure what to say. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” He finally asks. Billy’s mouth twists a little. 

“I guess it’d be fine,” he says, “but I don’t, um—I don’t want any alcohol.”

Steve nods, reaching out to take him gently by the elbow. “That’s fine, I’m not really drinking tonight either.”

Billy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

Steve glares at him. “Yes, really. I don’t drink at every party I go to.”

Billy’s mouth twitches. “Okay.”

“I don’t!” He insists, feeling playfully offended. Billy’s eyes are crinkling at the corners and Steve can see him biting his lip. The split has mostly healed, just a tiny pink line, and the bruising on his eye has turned yellow and green as it fades. He looks almost normal. Nancy’s still in the kitchen with Robin when they enter, and she squeals when she sees Billy.

“You’re here!” She launches herself at him, and Billy catches her around the waist in a shocking display of reflexes. His blue eyes are wide with shock, and he looks at Steve almost pleadingly.

“She’s been drinking,” he sighs, “Hey, Nance, why don’t you let go for a sec.”

She whines, clutching Billy tighter. “I don’t wanna.”

Billy pats her awkwardly on the back. “Um, do you want some water, Nancy?”

Nancy looks up at him, her lip wobbling.

“That’s so nice,” she whimpers, “You’re so nice! And _strong_.”

She pats his chest and leans her head on it in a drunk approximation of a hug. Billy’s eyes flicker between Robin, who looks about two seconds from laughing her ass off, and Steve, who knows that Nancy is a clingy drunk, and won’t be letting go of Billy until she inevitably passes out. His chest feels warm. He shrugs, his mouth twitching up into a tiny grin.

“Sorry, man,” he tells Billy, “looks like you’re on Nancy duty tonight.”

“What does that mean?” Billy sounds a little desperate. Nancy twists to grin up into his face.

“It means you’re my favorite,” she tells him seriously. Billy looks a little surprised at that. Steve snorts.

“Until she finds someone else to attach to,” he says derisively, “I can find Jonathan if you don’t wanna tote her around.”

“Who’s finding Jonathan?” The boy in question walks into the kitchen, pulling Barb by the elbow. She looks annoyed.

“Jonathan!” Nancy cries, “And Barb!”

She detaches herself from Billy and stumbles toward the newcomers on tiny feet. Steve sees Billy move so Steve’s more directly in front of him, acting like a shield. Jonathan sighs as he grabs Nancy around the waist.

“I’m thinking we should take her home,” Barb says. She has an empty cup in her hand, but she doesn’t look as drunk as she could be. Jonathan nods, struggling as Nancy tries to climb onto his back. 

“Yea, can you help me get her to the car?” He directs the question at Barb. She smirks.

“Nance, let me give you a boost,” she bends down and helps the squirming girl onto Jonathan’s back. Nancy yelps when Jonathan stumbles under her weight, hooking his arms under her knees. 

“Are you sure she shouldn’t just stay here tonight?” Steve asks warily, watching Barb try to steady Nancy on Jonathan’s back. The three of them turn simultaneously to look at him. 

“Okay, yea,” Jonathan’s breathing heavily, “I’m taking her to my room.”

Barb trails after them as they exit, her hands out to catch them. Steve’s not sure she’ll be much help.

“Well,” Billy says. Pauses. Steve turns to look at him. “That was…an experience.” He looks a little confused, like he can’t believe what he’s just seen, but his lips are quirked in a smile. Steve decides to take that as a good thing, and grins back at him in reassurance. 

“Is she always like that when she drinks?” Robin asks, hiding a smile behind her cup. 

“Pretty much,” Steve says, “she’s honestly the least annoying out of all of us, you’re lucky Jonathan was sober.”

“I’m not sure I wanna know what that means,” he hears Billy mutter. Steve grins at him.

—

Billy stays in the kitchen with Steve and Robin for the rest of the night, the claustrophobic feeling fading to the background the longer he stands there with them. By the time he and Robin leave, he feels loose and content. He tilts his head back and breaths in the night air; it’s cold, approaching mid December, but he doesn’t shiver without a coat. Robin’s still chattering next to him, her tongue loosened by the alcohol she’d had, tucked up tight in a big, fluffy sherpa sweater. He reaches out a hand to steady her when she stumbles, and she turns a wide smile on him. 

When they reach her dorm, she throws her arms around him in a hug. He squeezes her back.

“I’ll see you after break, okay?” She leans back to look into his face. “Don’t forget to text me.”

He gives her a smile, nods down at her. She leans up to squeeze him again, then turns and walks into her building with a little wave. He waits until the door closes behind her to walk away. His phone buzzes against his thigh.

**Steve H.**

_Im really glad you came tonight!!! Did u have fun_

**12:23am**

Billy deliberates for a second, biting his lip as he trudges down the path.

**You**

_I did. Thank you for inviting me_

**12:26am**

He holds his phone tightly as he walks. He almost drops it when it buzzes again.

**Steve H.**

_Im glad!!!! Youre always welcome here :)_

**12:28am**

**You**

_Thanks_

**12:29am**

He can’t keep the smile off his face the whole way back to his building.

—

On Billy's eleventh day at home, two days before Christmas Eve, Billy’s dad decides that having the house empty for a few days might be nice, and authorizes Billy to take Max with him to Jonathan's. He insists on calling Jonathan's mom first—to verify that she exists, and to verify that Jonathan has a girlfriend. 

Billy can feel himself relax almost as soon as they hit the open road. Max is next to him in the passenger seat, DJing from her phone. At a red light, Billy reaches up to pull his hair out of his face. Max is staring at him in shock when he looks over. 

“What,” he deadpans. Max shakes her head, a tiny smile on her lips. 

“Nothing,” she says, “I've never seen you with your hair back.”

He clears his throat. “Dad doesn't like it.”

“I know,” she answers, “I'm really glad to see you ignoring him. It looks good.”

Billy bites back a smile. “Thanks.”

“You should let me braid it sometime,” she grins, leaning back against the door, “it's probably long enough.”

“Yea, I don't think so,” he snorts. Max shrugs, tilts her head against the window. 

“We’ll see,” she says ominously. She closes her eyes. “I'm gonna nap, now. Wake me when we get there.”

—

Jonathan’s mother is short. That’s the first thing Billy notices. The second is her wide smile, one of the friendliest he’s ever seen. Jonathan looks just like her. She ushers them into the house with tiny hands, chattering at them about the drive. Jonathan comes out of the living room to take their bags from Billy, a smile that matches his mother’s taking up his whole face.

Max takes instantly to Jonathan’s brother, Will, and it’s not long before the rest of his little friends are holed up in Will’s room, Max nowhere in sight. Billy sits on the couch with Jonathan, leaning back and breathing for what feels like the first time in weeks.

“Where’s Nancy?” He asks after a while. The TV is a quiet murmur—they haven’t really been watching it, just sitting in comfortable silence. Jonathan looks over at him.

“She and her mom always bake together the week before Christmas, she’ll probably be by later,” he tells him. Billy nods, turning back to the TV. “I’m surprised your dad let you guys come for the actual holiday.”

Billy shrugs. “He’s doing my stepmother all over the house as we speak.”

Jonathan snorts, choking a little on a laugh. Billy’s lips quirk. It’s quiet for another moment.

“Would you be okay,” Jonathan says, breaking the silence, and Billy looks over at him, “if Steve came by?”

Billy swallows. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I know he makes you nervous,” Jonathan tells him, and Billy’s heart kicks up, “I don’t know why, and it doesn’t really matter. He usually comes for Christmas Day, cause his parents aren’t around except for their company party the night before.”

“I mean,” Billy clears his throat, “yea, it’s fine, I don’t mind.”

Jonathan hums, doesn’t look at him. “Do you wanna tell me why he makes you nervous?”

“No,” Billy blurts. His face feels hot. Jonathan nods.

“Okay.”

They sit in silence for a while longer.

—

Christmas dawns cold and grey, clouds in the sky heavy with promise. Max is shrill when she jumps on Billy to wake him up, who had gone to bed very late last night putting out the presents he had brought with him from home. He can’t wait for her to grow out of that. Will tells him in no uncertain terms that pajamas are mandatory, and Joyce hands him hot cocoa in a round, purple mug. It has a chip in the handle. Billy has to hide his smile in the rim. 

They all sit around the tree while the kids rip into the presents. Jonathan thanks him for the film canisters Billy had to order online to get. He’s shocked and pleased to discover that there are also several gifts with _his _name under the tree. Jonathan grins at him, like the secret was too good to keep. 

He gets a bluetooth speaker from Max, a set of guitar picks from Jonathan (“I don’t have a guitar.” “You can use them in the practice room.”), fingerless gloves from Nancy, some adult colouring books and a pack of pencils from Robin, and an ironic _Anger Management for Dummies_ from Barb (which makes him crack a smile, despite Max’s mild horror). Jonathan finally hands him one more box, a small, white card attached to it.

_In case the other one’s dirty_. _-Steve_

His heart is pounding when he tears the paper open. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, doesn’t know if he should speed up or slow down, savor the moment, or get it over with. 

Inside the box is something soft looking. Billy pulls it out, clutches the shoulders of the new sweatshirt tight in his hands. It’s grey still, but darker than the one Billy usually wears. He feels touched, a little overwhelmed. He pulls off the one he’s wearing, dragging the new one over his head. His hair comes out mussed, but still in its bun. He doesn’t bother fixing it, just smooths it down against his head. The sweatshirt smells like it was washed, the slightly sharp newness of it all but gone. Max is grinning up at him with equally messy hair when he looks down at her.

“Well?” He sounds a bit more breathless than he really wants to be.

“I like it,” she says, “I like the darker color on you.”

“I like it too,” he tells her softly. 

After cleaning up all the wrapping paper, Billy and Jonathan go into the kitchen to help Joyce cook. Billy feels warm, measuring out flour into a bowl. Isn’t scared, in this house. It might be the first Christmas since his mom died that he’s actually felt happy.

They all eat at the table in the kitchen, Max and Will bickering over something that Billy didn’t quite catch. He lets the sound of their voices wash over him, eats his breakfast. Rubs the soft hoodie sleeve between his fingers instead of snapping the rubber band. Feels good.

—

Steve gets to the Byers’ house at four. It’s a fairly long drive from Hawkins, but he doesn’t mind. Knowing he’s heading towards people is better than heading back towards an empty house. There’s two other cars in the driveway when he arrives: an old blue Camaro that he doesn’t recognize, and a big white truck with _Police _stamped on the side. He’s probably the last one to arrive.

Joyce opens the door with a big smile, her traditional ugly Christmas sweater blinking lights that match the ones strung up on the wall.

“Steve,” she greets him, “how was the drive?”

He shrugs. “Long. No traffic though.”

He lets her usher him inside, and stops dead at the scene in front of him. Billy, in the sweatshirt Steve got him, is sitting on the floor. This, alone, is not cause for pause. Behind him is a red-haired girl Steve’s never seen before, her hands tight in Billy’s hair as she braids it. Hopper’s daughter, Jane, is on the floor, holding Billy’s large left hand in her tiny one, a nail polish brush clutched tight in the other. He fish mouths for a moment, not sure how to address the scene in front of him. Billy hasn’t looked up from where he’s watching Jane paint his nails a dark blue, her tongue poked out in concentration. 

“Hey Steve,” Jonathan is grinning at him from the entrance to the hallway on the other side of the living room. Steve waves at him, feeling a flush creeping up his cheeks. He looks down at Billy, who’s finally noticed him. His ears are red.

“Hey guys,” he croaks. He clears his throat, takes his coat off as he moves further into the room. “I thought Nancy would be here already. Where’s the rest of the nerd herd?”

“Nancy’s mom wanted them home for dinner, they’ll be by later with the others,” Jonathan tells him, moving towards the kitchen where Steve can hear Hopper and Joyce. Steve moves closer to Billy on the floor, gestures at his already painted right hand.

“It’s a good look,” he says, keeping his voice light. Steve can see the flush creeping over Billy’s nose and can’t help but watch, fascinated.

“Kinda hard to say no to her,” Billy gestures with his head at Jane. The girl behind him squawks, yanking him back into position by his hair. Steve’s grinning before he realizes.

“You must be Max,” he says to her. She looks up from her task, her own eyes a bright blue that rival Billy’s. She nods, her mouth pinched suspiciously.

“Who’re you?” She asks loftily. Billy sighs.

“That’s Steve,” he tells her. She narrows her eyes, pulling at a stubborn knot in her step brother’s hair.

“Sweatshirt Steve?” 

Steve plonks himself down next to Billy, reaching out to tug gently on the sleeve of the new sweater.

“Yea that’s me,” he answers, “looks good. I guessed the size, but it fits.”

“It’s really nice,” Billy murmurs, looking embarrassed, “thanks.”

Steve shrugs. “You don’t have to thank me. Spirit of Christmas and all.”

Billy gives him a shy smile. Steve returns it automatically, his heart juddering in his chest. Jane leans back to cap the bottle of nail polish.

“There,” she declares, “Pretty.”

Billy’s blush intensifies, but he lifts his hands to survey them. He shoots her a little smile.

“You did a great job,” he says. Jane preens. Max tugs at his hair, then leans around to look at his face.

“Hair tie,” she demands. Billy carefully peels the one Steve gave him off his wrist and hands it to her. She secures the braid with a snap, then scrambles off the couch to get a better look from the front. “You should wear your hair like this always.”

Billy reaches back to feel it. “I can’t do that on my own.”

There’s a strand that Max missed tickling the side of Billy’s neck, just one tiny curl. Steve has to tear his eyes away from it to resist the urge to touch, feeling a little hot under the collar. He looks up when Jonathan comes in with a plate of Christmas cookies. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, “they’re store bought.”

Steve grabs one shaped like a tree, bites it in half. Watches Billy carefully select a gingerbread man, then bite off each of his legs, then his arms, then his head, before popping the rest into his mouth. Billy’s still blushing, his blond hair glowing a little under the lights from the tree. 

Max takes the plate from Jonathan and sets it on the table, and Jonathan leaves again, presumably to help his mother in the kitchen. Billy leans forward.

“Hey, can we talk for a sec?” He sounds nervous, his ears still red and sticking out slightly around the braid in his hair. Steve nods, gets up off the floor and lets Billy lead him down the hall to Jonathan’s room. He closes the door firmly, then stands and wrings his hands. Steve leans against the wall by Jonathan’s dresser.

“What’s up?” He tries to project calm, hoping Billy will feed off it and his anxiousness will dissipate. It doesn’t work. Billy stops, heaves a breath.

“I just,” he worries his lip, “I wanted to apologize.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “What for?”

“For, um,” Billy’s hands come up to cover his face, scrubbing a little harshly, “for being so horrible when we first met. I’m really sorry.”

Steve sighs, pushes off the wall to step closer to Billy. “Thank you for saying that. I don’t want you to feel guilty about it though, okay? It’s in the past.”

Billy’s shaking a little. Steve reaches out tentative hands to gently pull Billy’s hands away from his face. He’s surprised when Billy lets him. He stares at Billy’s shockingly blue eyes.

“Are you sure?” Billy asks quietly. “I was really horrible.”

“You were,” Steve agrees, “You’re not anymore though. And there were extenuating circumstances. We’re good. You can loosen up. None of us are gonna get pissed and stop talking to you if you make a tiny mistake. That’s what friends are.”

Billy just looks at him, his lower lip trapped between his teeth. Steve’s still holding his hands, doesn’t really want to let go. He watches Billy for another second, then makes a decision.

He lets go of Billy’s hands, but only to slowly wrap his arms around Billy’s shoulders instead. He moves as carefully as possible, telegraphing every movement. Finally, he presses tight, feeling the hard lines of Billy’s chest against his own. He can feel Billy breathing, and after a moment, Billy’s arms come up to wrap around Steve’s waist. He feels Billy’s hands dig tight into his sweater, gives him a tight squeeze. He pulls back, not wanting to overwhelm him. Billy’s bright red again, but he looks pleased. Steve grins at him.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s go find you another gingerbread man to destroy.”

—

It’s late, and Billy’s lying awake on the floor next to the couch, Max curled up above him. He’s been watching the ceiling, going over the events of the day in his head. Nothing feels real. Max’s head pokes over the edge of the couch.

“Hey,” she whispers, “are you awake?”

“Yea,” he answers, tilting his head to face her more. His hair’s still in its braid.

“This was really fun,” she tells him, “I’m glad we came.”

He smiles. “Me too.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“You’re happier here,” her voice is almost awed. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I mean,” he swallows. Shrugs. “Yea, I guess.”

“You love them,” she sounds like she’s asking. He shrugs again.

“I haven’t known them that long,” he tells her quietly. Thinks for a second. “I could.”

“What about Steve?” She whispers. He sits up on his elbows, suddenly nervous.

“What about Steve?” He responds, trying to keep his voice neutral. She looks at him for a second.

“If you like him it’s okay,” she finally tells him, “I won’t tell Neil.”

“I don’t—,” he cuts himself off. Doesn’t want to lie to her.

“Billy, it’s okay,” her small hand reaches down to brush against his, not quite reaching, “I want you to have that. I want you to be happy.”

He feels a little misty eyed, his throat aching. “Thanks, Max.”

He doesn’t know what else to say. Lays back down. Pokes her in the forehead until her head disappears again. Whispers: “go to sleep.”


	4. Chapter 4

“This is stupid,” Billy grumbles. His hands are sticky with clay. Robin rolls her eyes at him.

“It was your idea,” she reminds him. She’s spinning the wheel for him. He digs his thumbs in harder, trying to mold the clay the way he wants.

“He’s not even gonna care,” he whines. The bowl is lopsided. 

“He will care,” she assures him long-sufferingly, “He’ll love it. Stop whining, lift your hands and pull.”

He does as he’s told, watches as the clay stretches into something a little taller. Robin stops spinning after a moment.

“Cool, we have the base now,” she reaches down into the bucket at her feet, pulls out another handful of wet clay, “We just wanna make the handle.”

He takes it from her. “Do I just roll it?”

“Yea, just pinch a piece off and make it into a worm,” she instructs, “then we’ll stick it to the side and I’ll fire it.”

He does as he’s told, leaning forward to mold the strip to the base like Robin told him. It almost looks like a mug. Robin grins at him, reaching forward to carefully move the mug onto a tray of other unfinished products. 

“It looks good,” she smiles over at him, “my professor’ll fire them tomorrow, we can come back on Wednesday to paint it.”

He nods, standing and going over to the sink in the corner to wash his hands. They’re dry and uncomfortable where the clay is hardening, and he has to scrub a little to get it off. Robin uses the faucet next to him to wash her hands too. They’re quiet as they clean up and leave, Robin locking the door behind them.

The rest of break had been fairly uneventful for Billy, and since he’d gotten back to school something’s changed. He feels settled, less concerned about losing the people who’ve become his friends. 

“Nancy says they’re in the dining hall,” Robin tells him, looking at her phone, “You wanna get dinner?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, turning a little as he walks to start heading in that direction.

It’s packed when they arrive, peak dinner time, and Billy keeps his eyes glued to the back of Robin’s head as he tries to keep his breathing steady. He feels a little more relaxed when they reach Nancy’s table, Jonathan and Barb bickering about something over their food. Nancy grins when she sees them, a bowl of something red already in front of her. Robin dumps her stuff on the seat next to Nancy. Billy spies a bag next to Barb as he takes the last seat.

“Is that Steve’s?” He asks. Barb turns away from Jonathan to look at him.

“Yea, obviously,” she tells him blandly, “we only have like five friends.”

Billy can feel himself blushing a bit, hopes the yellow of the lights will wash it out. “I didn’t think seniors had dining plans.”

“We get like 7 dining credits a semester,” Steve says from behind him. Billy jumps, turning to see Steve holding a tray with chicken fingers and fries. He sets his food down.

“Oh,” Billy answers, “Um, Robin, food?”

He makes a hasty exit, Robin hot on his heels. She pops up next to him.

“You gotta chill out about Steve,” she tells him. He swallows, knows his ears are bright red. 

“I can’t help it,” he hisses, “he makes me—weird.”

Robin snorts. “Yea I know, that’s what I’m saying.”

He grabs a tray, dumping a plate on it. “And how do I not be weird then?”

“Just pretend you’re talking to Jonathan, or something,” she shrugs, following him over to the grill, “he doesn’t make you weird.”

“He’s not as pretty as Steve,” Billy grouses under his breath. Doesn’t mean to say it so loud. Robin’s grinning when he looks over and he flushes hard. Knows his face has to be bright red.

“That’s cute,” she tells him smugly. Billy rolls his eyes and turns away from her, hoping she’ll let the subject drop. “Does that mean you’re finally ready to talk about your crush on him?”

“No,” Billy says, “it’s not a crush—it’s just.”

“Just?” 

“Whatever,” he mutters, grabbing food to distract himself from how hot he feels. He walks away while Robin’s grabbing food, hoping she’ll forget about the conversation if he gets away fast enough. 

He sets his tray next to Steve’s, sitting gingerly and shooting Nancy a half-hearted smile when she looks over at him. He sees a hand shoot out and jumps, but it’s just Steve, stealing a carrot off his tray. His heart pounds.

“You don’t ask?” He mumbles. Steve shrugs.

“Want a fry?” Steve scoots his plate closer to Billy, crunching hard on the carrot. Billy takes one tentatively. He can’t settle for the whole meal.

—

Steve starts showing up everywhere. Billy’s not sure what changed, but he’s pretty sure Robin is conspiring against him. He’s fully convinced of this when Steve invites him and Nancy to study at his apartment one Wednesday in late January, and Nancy is nowhere to be found. They sit on the couch in silence for a while, both working on their respective readings. Billy’s tapping his knee nervously when Steve’s phone buzzes. He sighs when he reads it.

“Nancy’s not coming, Jonathan needs her for some photography thing,” he informs Billy quietly. Billy nods, his heart kicking up.

“I can leave, if you want,” he offers, tapping his pen harder against his knee. Steve looks up at him, startled.

“Why would you leave?” He looks confused. “We can hang out alone, there doesn’t have to be someone else around.”

“Oh,” Billy says, turning back to his work. He knows his ears are red. Steve’s quiet for a moment.

“Did you want to leave?” He asks finally. Billy looks up at his brown eyes.

“No,” he tells him, “I just wasn’t sure.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Billy figures now is as good a time as any, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He reaches into his bag to pull out the carefully wrapped mug. He hands it out to Steve, who takes it gingerly.

“What’s this?” He asks softly, his mouth twitching up. Billy swallows hard.

“It’s, um, just a thank you,” he answers, “for the sweatshirt, and—well. You know.”

Steve peels the wrappings off with long fingers, his grin widening as he does so. Billy can’t help staring, his neck hot. When Steve finally pulls the mug out, his smile is blinding.

“Did you _make _this?” He asks in awe. He turns it over in his hands.

“Yea, um, Robin helped me,” Billy tells him, tugging his sleeves nervously. Steve reaches out to wrap his arms around Billy’s shoulders. Billy sighs deeply, his breath ruffling Steve’s hair as he brings his hands up to squeeze Steve back. He tries to relax. Steve pulls back again to admire the mug.

“It’s great, thanks,” he says. He puts it carefully on the table in front of them. Billy feels warm. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Uh, sure,” Billy’s not sure where this going. Steve looks over at him, serious again.

“I know Robin’s suggested coming to SPECTRUM before,” he starts, and Billy’s heart stops, “What’s stopping you?”

Billy sucks in a breath, not really sure how to explain. Steve waits patiently.

“I’ve never told anyone,” he says quietly, “I barely got it out when Robin asked me, and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I don’t know if I can handle having people know anything about me.”

“Even if they wouldn’t care?” Steve asks, equally quiet. “The club is entirely anonymous, what happens there stays there, but it’s about community. Sometimes having people know is better than hiding.”

Billy shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “You don’t understand. If it got back to my dad that I—I don’t think I’d survive.”

“You think he’s capable of that?” Steve whispers. His eyes are big and dark when Billy looks over.

“You’ve seen the scar,” he reminds him, “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Steve swallows. He scoots a little closer to Billy, leaning his shoulder against his. They sit in silence for a moment. Billy breathes deeply, can smell Steve when he’s this close.

“Well, I’m not gonna make you come,” Steve finally sighs, reaching to drag his textbook into his lap and lean back. His thigh is still pressed tight to Billy’s. “But I think it could be good for you. To see what’s out there, you know?”

“Maybe,” Billy says. He doesn’t say anything else, just leans forward on his knees and focuses on the problem sets in front of him.

—

Steve looks annoyed when Billy shows up for work on Sunday, his hair sticking up in tufts like he’s been running his hands through it. Billy dumps his stuff and sits next to him, tugging at his sleeve as he decides what to do.

“Are you okay?” He finally asks. Steve grunts, scrubs harshly at his paper with his eraser.

“We’re supposed to be fundraising this week for the Valentine’s dance that SPECTRUM hosts every year,” Steve mutters, “so we’re having a bake sale, and Nancy and Barb were supposed to come over to help me bake tonight, but Jonathan decided he needed them for some photography thing, so now I’m on my own.”

Billy bites his lip. “I could help you, if you want.” 

Steve looks up at that, his brown eyes wide. “Really?”

“Yea, I mean,” Billy shrugs, picking at his rubber band but not snapping, “I’ve never baked before, but if you just need an extra set of hands…I have two.”

Steve grins, the crease in his forehead smoothing out. “That would be _great_. It’s not hard, I can show you what to do.”

Billy nods, reaching out to pick up his pen. “Okay. I guess I’ll just… walk over with you after work?”

“Yea,” Steve says, “that’s perfect.”

His shoulders don’t look at as tight, and Billy feels warm under his sternum looking at him. Billy shoots him a tiny smile, which Steve returns, and they turn back to their work. Billy keeps looking at the clock, watching the minutes tick by. Steve doesn’t talk much for the rest of the shift, and Billy’s getting more nervous as time goes by. His leg starts jiggling of its own accord.

Eight finally rolls around, and Billy gathers his stuff silently, peaking over at Steve as he does the same. Steve gives him a smile, nods his head towards the door, and Billy follows him. They’re quiet on the walk back, quiet when they put their stuff down, quiet when they take off their shoes and go into the kitchen in Steve’s apartment. The silence is starting to get to Billy; he feels nervous and jittery. 

“Okay,” Steve finally says, “I was gonna make brownies, cause they keep and they’re easy to make, and then a couple kinds of cookies? They’re easier to transport than cupcakes.”

Billy nods, watches as Steve reaches into a cabinet to pull out dry ingredients. He stands awkwardly by the counter, his hands in his pockets.

“What do you want me to do?” He asks. Steve gestures towards the fridge, pulling out bowls from a different cabinet.

“Can you get out the eggs, milk, butter, and baking powder from the fridge? Just set them here on the counter.”

Billy does as he’s told, waits for more instructions. “Is anyone else bringing stuff?”

“One of the other girls said she’d be able to bring cupcakes I think,” Steve tells him, pulling out measuring spoons and cups, “most of the kids who come don’t have kitchens though.”

“Oh,” Billy nods. Steve sets out a small, glass bowl.

“Okay can you put the butter in there and put it in the microwave? We need it to soften,” he says, reaching for the flour. Billy does as he’s told, pressing a few buttons and standing to watch the butter spin around. “So I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s never good,” Billy mutters. He flushes when Steve lets out a little laugh. The microwave beeps. He brings the butter over to Steve, watches him work.

“I was thinking about what you said, about not wanting to go to SPECTRUM,” Steve continues, pouring out sugar, “here, mix this.”

Billy does so, waiting for Steve to keep talking.

“I was thinking, if you wanted to, I could bring SPECTRUM to you,” Steve looks over at him, his brown eyes cautious under the flop of his hair. Billy swallows, suddenly feeling too hot.

“No, I—“ he sucks in a breath, struggling to remain in control, “I _told_ you I didn’t want anyone—knowing anything, I can’t—“

He squeezes his eyes shut, his chest tight and hot. He distantly hears something clatter on the counter, then Steve’s hand is on his elbow. Billy flinches, stumbling back a step. Steve’s eyes are wide and brown when Billy opens his own.

“I didn’t mean—“ Steve puts his hands out placatingly, “That’s not what I meant. It would only be what you wanted.”

Billy swallows, has to snap his rubber band to feel calmer.

“What would that entail?” He asks carefully, his voice sticking a bit in his throat. He watches Steve step back over to the counter, then steps up next to him cautiously. Steve takes the creamed butter and sugar from him and hands him an egg to crack into the bowl.

Steve takes his full bottom lip into his mouth as he cracks his own egg. “I mean, basically all we do in meetings is talk about being gay. Play games. Sometimes watch a movie. We can do all of that here, without other people around.”

Billy dumps his egg shell behind Steve in the sink, takes another one. He’s not sure what to say.

“I get that it makes you uncomfortable,” Steve continues, “but I think the more exposure you have the less it’ll feel like a big deal. I think you need that.”

His hands are sticky. He doesn’t look at Steve as he moves to rinse his hands. When he turns back around, Steve is combining wet and dry ingredients.

“Would it just be us?” He asks softly. Not sure what he wants the answer to be. Steve shrugs, pulling out a hand mixer and sticking the beaters in.

“If you want it to be,” he says, “Or we can invite Robin or Nancy or whoever. It’s really up to you.”

Billy stays quiet as Steve mixes, the noise a little too loud to Billy’s ears. Steve gestures at the fridge again when he finishes.

“Can you grab the chocolate chips?”

Billy hands them over, props himself back up next to Steve. 

“Okay,” he says. Steve doesn’t look over at him, just keeps doing what he’s doing.

“Okay?”

“Yea, um,” Billy clears his throat, moves when Steve reaches behind him for a spoon, “I don’t know if—if I’m okay with other people knowing about it, but. Okay.”

Steve hums, folding the heavy batter over. “That’s cool. We can just tell them we’re studying or something.”

Billy nods, taking the spoon from Steve when he hands it over. Steve smiles. “You can lick it if you want.”

“Seriously?” Billy blurts. Steve’s smile stretches.

“It’s tradition,” he tells him. Billy feels himself blushing under the weight of Steve’s gaze, but he brings the spoon up anyway. There’s a chocolate chip on the end of it, and he takes it carefully into his mouth with a glob of batter. When he looks up again, Steve’s still watching him, but he looks dazed. Billy blushes harder, thrusts the spoon out. Steve blinks, takes it back from him and dumps it in the sink. The back of his neck is red.

Billy helps him scoop little round drops of batter onto two cookie sheets, and Steve doesn’t say anything else. He puts the trays in the oven, then the messy bowls in the sink.

“Do you mind washing those while I start the brownies?” Steve asks, gesturing vaguely. Billy nods, moves forward to scrub the dishes. 

He feels soothed with his hands under the rushing water. Listens while Steve clatters around behind him. He dries his hands when he’s done, shuffles over to look at the brown batter Steve’s mixing. Steve looks up at him with a small smile. 

“These are easy,” he says, “I just have to pour them into the tray and bake, then they’re done.”

Billy nods. “Do you need any more help?”

“I don’t think so,” Steve answers, “but you don’t have to leave. We can get started on your education while these bake if you want?”

“By doing what?” Billy asks nervously. Steve shrugs, leaning over to pour the thick batter into a glass brownie tray.

“We can watch a movie, I have a bunch,” he says, “I’m guessing you’ve never seen _Imagine Me & You_?”

Billy scrunches his nose up. “Is it a romcom?”

Steve laughs, dumping the bowl in the sink to soak. “Yea, but so are most of the movies I’m gonna show you. I don’t think you’re ready for the dramas.”

“Fine,” Billy sighs. Steve moves past him to the living room, clapping him on the shoulder as he passes. Billy hovers, not sure if he should sit next to Steve or take one of the other empty seats. Steve looks up at him from the couch, rolls his eyes.

“Sit anywhere, man, I won’t be offended,” he tells him. Billy heaves a sigh, sits on the loveseat. Steve clicks around with the remote, navigating to his iTunes and opening the movie. They sit in silence the whole time.

—

“Well?” Steve asks as the credits roll. He’d gotten up twice to deal with the oven, but Billy has been fully engrossed the entire time. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“I,” his voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat. “It was good.”

“Just good?” Steve wheedles. He saw Billy swipe at his eyes earlier, but he doesn’t want to embarrass him. Billy shrugs noncommittally, his ears a little red.

“It was fine,” Billy insists. Steve sighs under his breath.

“Fine enough to watch another one sometime?” He asks. He watches Billy tug at his sleeves.

“I guess,” he mumbles. 

Steve can feel his mouth twitching up in a tiny smile. “Jonathan’s gonna be out on Tuesday, if you wanna come back then.”

“Can we bake again?” It comes out in a rush, like Billy didn’t mean to say it. Steve can’t help himself this time, he grins.

“Yea, sure,” he tells him, standing and stretching, “whatever you want.”

—

Billy goes to Steve’s twice more before the week is out. They watch DEBs, which is _bad_, but Billy laughs the whole way through. He doesn’t like GBF, thinks the ending is dumb, which Steve tells him is pretty par for the course in gay movies. 

On Saturday, Billy waits outside the apartment building for Steve to buzz him up, shuffling a little in the cold. He hastens into the hall when the buzzer sounds on the door, scuffing his boots on the wet carpet. It’s been snowing all day, and Billy has snow in his eyelashes from the walk over. He hurries up the stairs, not bothering to knock when he sees the door to Steve’s apartment’s open. He kicks off his boots.

“Steve?” He calls out. There’s a thunk, and a moment later Steve’s fluffy head pokes around the door to the living room. He’s smiling.

“Hey, come on in! I’m making hot chocolate,” he says, disappearing again. Billy takes his wet coat off and hangs it over the hook, shutting the door tight before he makes his way into the living room. Steve comes in at the same time with two steaming mugs, nods at the couch. “Sit with me today, I only have the one blanket.”

Billy tugs at his sleeves, suddenly a little nervous. He shuffles over nonetheless, taking the mug Steve hands him and sitting down with the other boy. Steve looks soft in a dark blue sweater, his hair not sticking up like it usually is, just curling gently against his forehead. Billy wills his heart to slow a little.

“What are we watching today?” He asks, accepting the blanket Steve hands him and dragging half over his lap. Steve blows across the liquid in his mug.

“_Love, Simon_,” he says, “I thought we’d see how you do with a little drama.”

Billy narrows his eyes, “I can handle drama.”

Steve snorts, raising an eyebrow. Billy feels something expand in his chest, can’t help the way his lips twitch in response. He takes a small sip from the mug warming his hands.

“Fine, just put it on,” he grumbles, leaning back. He doesn’t jump when Steve settles next to him. He feels warm, from head to toe, and Steve is warm next to him too. 

He makes it until Simon’s mother tells him he can exhale now, and then he can’t help it. His mug has been long abandoned on the table, and he clenches his fist in the blanket. There are tears rolling down his face, he can’t make them stop. He chokes a little trying to breathe, embarrassed beyond reason at the noises coming out of his mouth. He sees Steve pause the movie, shoves his hands over his face to hide from him as Steve turns to face him. Steve presses himself along Billy’s side, doesn’t say anything. Just sits, a silent pillar as Billy struggles to get himself under control.

It takes him a while, feels a little light headed when he finally stops crying. Becomes aware of Steve’s hand on his knee, just a tiny pressure.

“This is why I didn’t start you with _Brokeback Mountain_,” he whispers, and Billy chokes out a startled laugh. He wraps his arms tight around himself.

“Steve?” He asks after a moment. Steve hums. “I want to exhale.”

“Okay,” Steve says quietly, “Whenever you’re ready.”

He doesn’t look at him, for which Billy is grateful. Billy leans a little closer into Steve’s heat, his heart pounding loud and bright in his chest. His throat sticks. They sit in the dark and the quiet for a long time. Finally, Billy takes a deep breath, feelings like he’s about to fall over the edge of something big, his chest burning.

“I’m gay,” he whispers. Steve squeezes tight to his knee.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says. Billy doesn’t feel lighter—he feels heavy, like he’s finally anchored to the floor. “Do you want to keep watching?”

“Yea,” Billy whispers. They stay like that for the rest of the movie.

—

Steve has a problem. Billy is slowly seeping into every corner of his life, and he’s doing nothing to stop it. Worse yet, he’s encouraging it. It seems that he’s not as good of a person as he thought, offering a boy in desperate need of a lifeline some support. The more he sees Billy, the more he wants to, and he’s not sure what to do with that. It’s been three weeks of movie nights, and while Billy has been relaxing into it with more grace than Steve thought he’d possess, Steve finds himself struggling to maintain his composure around the other boy. He voices this to Jonathan, confused.

“You like him,” Jonathan tells him blandly, not looking up from the book he’s reading. Steve’s heart stutters.

“What?” He asks, feeling a little dazed. Jonathan rolls his eyes, shuts his book with a snap so he can face Steve head on.

“Don’t you?” He demands. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him.”

“I mean—yea, but,” Steve feels like he’s struggling to tread water. Jonathan just gives him an incredulous look.

“Why are you being weird? You’ve had crushes on boys before.”

“I don’t have a crush on Billy,” Steve insists, knows he’s a little red, “we’re friends, it’s not weird to like hanging out with your friends.”

Jonathan looks like he wants to hit him. “Steve, you and I are friends. We _live_ together, and you’ve still seen more of Billy in the last few weeks than you have me.”

“You’ve been with Nancy,” Steve protests. Jonathan snorts.

“Yea, I’m dating Nancy,” he answers, more smugly than Steve would like. Steve huffs, flops back onto the couch. 

“If it helps,” Jonathan says, leaning back and cracking open his book again, “I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yea, right. It took forever for him to even stop seeing me as a threat, there’s no _way_ he likes me.”

“Just a hunch,” Jonathan says, “but I think maybe he saw you as a threat _because_ he was attracted to you.”

Steve mulls this over. Shakes his head, stands. 

“You’re crazy,” he tells Jonathan as he leaves the room. “I don’t like him, he doesn’t like me, and you’re _crazy_.”

—

“Do I ever get to choose a movie?” Billy asks one night. Steve hands a bowl of popcorn to him, shoving a few pieces into his mouth. He flops down next to Billy, perhaps closer than strictly necessary, but Billy doesn’t flinch away so Steve stays put. 

“Do you have a suggestion?” He replies, reaching into the bowl for more popcorn. Billy angles it towards him.

“Not for—our theme,” he clears his throat, “but um, if you wanted to shake it up. Yea.”

Steve looks over at him, has to twist a little to make eye contact. “What did you have in mind?”

“Have you seen the _Star Trek_ reboot?” Billy blurts. Steve feels totally shocked, not having expected that at all. He feels a grin curl over his mouth.

“I have, Chris Pine is hot,” he says. He thinks Billy might be blushing.

“I always, um,” he turns the popcorn bowl in his hands, “I always liked Zachary Quinto.”

“Oh yea?” Steve asks, feeling breathless. Feels like the moment is fragile. Billy nods; he’s definitely blushing.

“He has good eyes,” he mumbles, picking at the rim of the bowl in his hands; the plastic creaks. Steve grins wider.

“Definitely,” he agrees, “I’m a sucker for blue, though.”

Billy looks up at him then, his own blue eyes wide. “Oh.”

Steve clears his throat, turning back to face the TV again. “We can watch that, I have it on my iTunes.”

They’re quiet. The movie plays in front of them, and they share the popcorn until it gets to the the kernels at the bottom of the bowl. Billy has to lean forward to put it on the coffee table, and Steve can’t help the way his eyes trace over the other boy’s back as he does so. His sweatshirt hides a lot, but it doesn’t change how broad Billy is, can’t disguise the flex of his shoulders when he moves. He has tiny baby curls peaking out from under his now quintessential bun, and they tickle his neck. When he leans back again, he sighs, and Steve can feel his bicep brush his own arm.

Later, when the credits roll and he turns the lights back on, he walks Billy to the door. Billy smiles at him when he says goodbye, and his eyes are blue blue blue, and Steve feels totally fucked.

—

Billy stops by the mailboxes on his way to Steve’s the day before Valentine’s day. There’s a bunch of junk, fliers for Valentine’s events mostly, but at the bottom of the brightly colored pile is a heavy envelope. His heart stutters when he sees the address, and he hastens to dump his trash and leave, knowing that if he tries to open the letter here he’ll lose it.

He makes it back to his dorm without fully panicking, slams the door to his room and shucks his coat and boots more haphazardly than he usually would. He tears at the envelope, and pulls the letter out.

_Dear Mr. Hargrove,_

_We hope you have found a special lady to spend the upcoming holiday with! As an alumnus of our camp, and a successful graduate, we’d like to offer you the opportunity to share your story with a testimonial for our website. Attached is the form, please fill it out and send it back at your earliest convenience._

_With blessings,_

_Gene McNally_

_Camp Director_

Billy can’t breathe, drops the papers and watches them flutter to the floor. His vision goes dark, and he falls to his knees, his heart juddering hard in his chest and throat. Suddenly, he has too much energy, scrambles hard to get his clothes off, can’t stand where they touch his skin.

He feels ruthless, raises his arms like an animal and slams his fists against the floor. He shakes, turns his fist to beat it against the tile, again and again, until he’s bloody. His hands ache, and there’s a splotch of blood in front of him. His chest heaves, and he scrabbles at his chest harshly as though trying to rips his lungs out. 

He lurches, unthinkingly, towards the bleach under his bed. He has to get the stain out, can’t stand looking at the red standing out starkly on the white tile. He scrubs, feels his split knuckles burning, doesn’t care. His head feels heavy, still can’t see around the darkness at the edge of his vision. 

When he can’t move anymore, he abandons the rag in the middle of the floor. He curls up on his side, still shaking. He cradles his injured hand against his chest, doesn’t know how long he lays there in a haze. Feels like he’s floating, the cold floor quickly warming under his skin.

—

“I’m heading over there now,” Steve says into his phone, his other hand tucked deep in his coat pocket, “Does he leave the door unlocked?”

“Um, I don’t know,” Robin says, “I’ve never actually been in his room. Are you sure he didn’t just forget?”

Steve huffs, “I’m pretty sure. It’s not really like him.”

“No,” Robin agrees. She’s quiet. Steve looks up at the building looming in front of him.

“Robin, I’m here,” he says, “I’ll text you when I know what’s going on.”

She mumbles her assent into the ear piece, and Steve hangs up on her, shoving his phone into his back pocket and climbing the stairs. He feels a little crazy, wandering around the dorm looking at the names on the doors, hoping to find Billy’s. He does, finally, and knocks tentatively on the door.

“Billy?” He presses closer, hopes Billy can hear him through the thick wood. There’s no noise from inside. He calls again. Still no answer. He doesn’t bother with the phone; Billy hasn’t been answering for hours. He tries the handle, a little surprised when it turns easily under his hands. He pokes his head in, and goes cold instantly.

The whole room smells like bleach. He can see Billy on the floor, still, in nothing but his underwear. Steve moves forward hastily, the door slamming behind him as he goes to the floor. He puts his hand on Billy’s flank, the other boy doesn’t move.

“Billy?” He keeps his voice soft. Feels like he might shake apart. Billy opens his eyes, bleary. Steve feels the breath expel from his lungs, a little relieved at the response.

“Steve?” Billy’s voice is hoarse. He squeezes his eyes shut again. Shakes.

“What happened?” Steve asks gently. Billy shakes his head, almost knocking it against the floor. “Okay, okay. Can you stand?”

It takes Billy a moment before he moves, and he sits up with Steve’s help, cradling his arm against his body. Steve can see his knuckles are bruised and bloody, wonders if they’re broken. He helps Billy towards the shower, sits him down on the floor. He takes off his coat, leaves it on the floor, before he steps in with him, turning the water warm. Billy makes a wounded noise, curling away from him.

“You smell like bleach,” Steve tells him, “I just wanna rinse you off.”

Billy lets him maneuver him around, flinches away when the water touches his face. They step out, and Steve hands him a towel, props him up against the wall. He managed to escape with just wet sleeves and shoes, so he takes them off and heads for Billy’s dresser, where he pulls out a clean set of clothes. He hands them over, then waits outside while Billy changes, doesn’t close the door. He wants to hear Billy moving.

Billy comes out, shuffling, looking tiny somehow. His grey henley stretches over an impressive set of muscles, but the way he’s standing makes him seem small and fragile. Steve reaches for him, takes his elbow. He still looks spaced out, and his knuckles are bleeding sluggishly.

“Do you have bandages?” Steve asks, leading him over to sit on the bed. Billy brings his knees up, curls his arms around them. Nods. Steve goes back into the bathroom to search them out, then wraps Billy’s knuckles with careful hands. “Where does the bleach go?”

“Under the bed,” Billy croaks. Steve moves again, shoves the cleaning products out of sight. Then he crouches in front of his friend.

“What happened?” He implores. Billy won’t look at him, screws his eyes up and scrunches his nose, scratches hard at his neck with his wounded hand.

“I got a letter,” he mumbles. Steve starts, looking over at the papers he’d stepped over on his way in. He goes over, lifts them, and burns. He doesn’t look at Billy as he tears the pages up, moves over and dumps the pieces in the trash bin under Billy’s desk. He sits back down next to Billy, presses against his side. Doesn’t want to overwhelm him, but can’t stray too far.

“I’m so sorry, Billy,” he whispers, “you don’t deserve this.”

Billy makes another noise, high in his throat. He leans against Steve. Tentatively, Steve brings an arm up to wrap around his back. Strokes carefully over his flank. After a while, he can feel Billy start to relax. Billy leans harder when he does, like he’s trying to burrow into Steve and stay. Steve makes a decision.

“Lay down,” he says, tugging at Billy’s shirt. Billy looks at him, a little wild. “Trust me.”

Billy swallows harshly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Then he moves, curling up on his side so he faces the wall. Like he knows what Steve’s planning. Steve takes a deep breath, then curls up behind him, wraps his arm tight around Billy’s middle, tucks his knees up behind Billy's. Can feel Billy breathing. He starts shuddering again after a minute, like he can’t keep himself wrapped tight like he usually does. Steve squeezes him harder.

“Breath with me,” he whispers, drawing an exaggerated breath like a demonstration, “can you feel it?”

Billy nods, and Steve keeps breathing deep, feels Billy drag the air in in time with Steve.

After a while, Steve lifts his head, looks down into Billy’s slack face. Feels a little warm. He lays his head back down, doesn’t bother moving from his position.

—

Steve lays there for hours while Billy sleeps. Isn’t sure what to do about the situation, knows things can’t continue this way. Billy shuffles a little, rolling over to face Steve. There’s a tiny crease between his eyebrows, his long hair loose and haloed around his head. Steve raises the hand that’s wrapped around Billy’s waist, reaches up to smooth a few of the golden curls away from the other boy’s face. Tucks them behind his ear, again and again. Watches silently as Billy breathes deep and even, the crease between his brows smoothing out as Steve pets him. 

Steve’s heart is beating too hard. He can’t help feeling angry, doesn’t understand why this is the lot Billy’s been dealt. Keeps his fingers buried in Billy’s hair, untangling the knots gently, pulling at the silky curls. He breathes slow and deep, tries to focus on the boy in front of him. Thinks maybe Jonathan was right.

His phone buzzes in his pants. He reluctantly takes his hand out of Billy’s hair to pull his phone out. It’s nearing eleven at night, and there’s a text from Robin on his screen, asking if everything’s okay. He has to roll onto his back to respond, tells her it’s under control. Billy makes a little noise, snuffling, and pushes closer to Steve. His face is millimeters from Steve’s shoulder, and Steve’s heart feels a little broken. He turns his face, Billy’s hair tickling his nose, and scoots closer too. He reaches down to take Billy’s hand, curls Billy’s thick arm around his waist. Feels warm.

Billy’s hand flexes against Steve’s side, curls into a fist and grips tight to his shirt. Presses his face to Steve’s shoulder, like he’s about to wake but isn’t quite there yet. Steve holds his breath until Billy stops moving, He settles against Steve’s side, who can feel his heartbeat against his arm. Steve thinks maybe if he stays here forever it won’t be long enough.

—

Billy feels _bad_ when he wakes up in the morning. Steve’s still curled around him, dead asleep, and Billy’s limbs feel heavy when he thinks about moving away. He has no idea what time it is, but his mouth is dry and his eyes are itchy and his hand _aches_. He focuses on Steve’s breathing, watches his mouth inhale and exhale in front of him, his own chest hot and tight. 

Steve starts shuffling not long after, and Billy can’t look away as Steve wakes up, his arms stretching forward around Billy, bringing Steve closer to his face by accident. Steve’s eyes open, widening instantly. He scoots back to give Billy some space, but doesn’t let go of him completely. Billy feels grateful, anchored. Steve’s brown eyes flicker back and forth between Billy’s.

“Morning,” he says quietly. Billy swallows, shutting his eyes and tucking his face into the pillow so he doesn’t have to look at Steve, “hey—are you feeling better?”

Steve’s voice is so gentle, and he’s holding Billy so carefully—he doesn’t know how to answer.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, a little muffled. Steve passes a hand down Billy’s back slowly, a soothing motion that makes something stutter where Billy’s heart lives.

“That’s okay,” Steve answers, “do you wanna go eat? Figure it out?”

Billy tenses, doesn’t think he can brave leaving. Feels his chest squeeze tighter. Steve’s hand is still traveling up and down his back; he tries to focus on the sensation.

“Um, I—“ he breathes deep, “don’t want to see… anyone.”

“We don’t have to,” Steve’s voice is still quiet, “we can stay here. We can go back to my place. Whatever you want.”

Billy swallows, turns a little so he can peek one eyes out at Steve. “We can go to yours, maybe.” 

He thinks that wouldn’t be so bad. Steve’s feels safe, nothing like the bright white walls and harsh cleanliness of the tiles that make up his room. He doesn’t want to be here, suddenly, knows he can’t stay. Doesn’t know how to voice this. 

“Okay,” Steve says, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at Billy, “you wanna go now?”

Billy nods, sitting up and finally dislodging the arm Steve had around his waist. He feels cold without it.

“I’m going to shower first,” he mumbles, “is that okay?”

Steve gives him a little smile, sitting up next to him. “Yea of course, take your time.”

Billy heaves himself off the bed, shakes his hand out when he puts pressure on it and a jagged pain shoots up his arm. He doesn’t look at Steve again as he grabs clothes and shuffles into the bathroom quickly.

—

It takes Billy a week to start feeling normal again. He spends most of that time with Steve, feeling kind of clingy and lame, but not able to help himself. Steve doesn’t really seem to mind anyway, keeps smiling at Billy like he’s the best thing, and Billy feels a little warmer each time. 

He finally gets tired of Robin bugging him about not showing up to the art studio, the Friday after his meltdown, so he goes to see her. She’s working on some kind of painting, her hands slathered with bright colors. She grins when he comes in.

“I’d hug you, but,” she wiggles her messy fingers at him. He shoots her a smile, dumping his bag and shucking his coat as he sits. “Where have you _been_? Last I heard, Steve was heading to find you in your dorm.”

Billy sighs, fills her in. Leaves some of the details out, but when he’s done, she still looks sad and a little scared. 

“Are you okay?” She asks. He swallows.

“I’m,” he pauses, doesn’t really want to lie to her, “no, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Robin tells him. She drags a purple finger down her canvas, looks like she’s distracting herself. “So Jonathan was telling me his mom’s friends with the Sheriff in your county.”

“Okay?” Billy says. He watches her use her pinkie to draw an arch in green.

“I think you should tell him about your dad,” she says, “he has jurisdiction over your town—I checked. I think he could help you at least get some distance.”

Billy’s heart is pounding. His hands feel clammy, and he shoves them in his pockets when they start shaking. 

“I don’t know, Robin, I—“

“I know it’s scary,” she says, turning her full attention on him again, “but you can’t live under his thumb forever. And I want you to feel safe, here. I think he could help you with that.”

Billy flexes his fists. Stays quiet for a moment as he mulls it over. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” she gives him a little smile, turns to smear her orange index along the side of her canvas, “So how’s Steve?”

“He’s fine,” Billy knows he’s blushing, can’t help the way his heart is stuttering. Robin’s smirking at him, and she smacks her handprints onto the canvas with gusto.

“Yea, I bet,” she grins, her voice smug, “I was talking to Jonathan.”

“What about?” Billy doesn’t like where this is going. Robin nods her head like there’s music on, smacks another handprint to the canvas.

“He has an interesting theory,” she tells him. Billy huffs.

“Robin, will you spit it out?” He feels anxious, annoyed. Doesn’t want to play this game.

“He _thinks_,” she starts, “that Steve likes you.”

“We’re friends,” Billy informs her, deadpan. Robin rolls her eyes.

“Yes, I know this,” she answers, “Jonathan thinks Steve _likes_ you. Thinks Steve wants to date you.”

Billy’s blushing hard, his chest feels hot. “That’s—not possible.”

“Why?” Robin asks. “You’re hot, you’re funny, you’re crazy smart—what’s not to like?”

“This is a ridiculous conversation,” Billy says, standing. Robin looks ready to smack him. 

“Don’t walk away,” she demands, “I”m not playing with you. This is real.”

“It’s not,” Billy shakes his head, takes his hands out of his pockets to wring them. Can’t stop the pounding of his heart.

“It _is_, whether you choose to believe it or not,” Robin says. She looks a little angry, small and red in the face as she looks up at him with hard eyes. “I know how you feel about him, I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t think it could be true.”

Billy shakes his head harder. “I have to get out of here.”

Robin sighs, watching him gather his stuff.

“Fine,” she calls after him as he leaves, “at least think about what I said!”

“Like I’ll be able to think about anything else,” he mutters, making a hasty exit.

—

Billy walks around for a while, sucks deep breaths of wintry air, tries to calm down. He paces around campus, not really sure where he’s going until he’s at Steve’s. He sighs, knowing he’s going to buzz up. It’s a Friday, maybe Steve won’t be home. 

He is.

Billy takes the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t know when Steve became the person he wants around when he feels bad—but apparently it happened. Steve’s leaning against his open door when he appears out of the stairwell, smiling down the hall at him.

“Hey,” he calls, kicking off the doorstop, “Did I know you were coming?”

“No,” Billy tells him, slowing as he gets closer, “I was with Robin—just thought I’d stop by. I can leave if—“

“Oh, get in here,” Steve rolls his eyes, grabbing Billy by the arm to drag him into the apartment. He watches as Billy takes off his coat and shoes and dumps his bag, then ushers him towards the living room, as usual. Billy looks around. It looks like Steve was alone.

“Where’s Jonathan?” He asks, eyeing the mess on the coffee table. Steve moves around him to pile up his books where they were strewn out. “Were you studying?”

“He’s with Nancy,” Steve tells him. He straightens and rubs the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. “So what if I was?”

“It’s Friday,” Billy blurts. Steve looks embarrassed.

“I know, but,” he shrugs, ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck, “Some of us need to study more to get the material down.”

“Oh,” Billy doesn’t know what to say to that, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” Steve waves a hand, shoves the other into the pocket of his sweatpants, “I was gonna take a break anyway. Wanna watch something?”

Billy nods, moves to take his place on the couch. Steve drops into the space next to him. For the first time, Billy notices how much space is left. Notices that maybe, Steve doesn’t have to sit that close.

Steve puts on _Gilmore Girls_, because they’ve been working through it in between movies, and Billy wouldn’t tell anyone else how much he loves it. They watch while Lorelai struggles with the problem of a broken window, gets mistaken for Luke’s wife, and takes care of Luke when he gets upset over a fight with his nephew. 

The air feels warm around them, and Billy can feel Steve breathing—can feel it because Steve’s pressed right against his side. He feels a little brave.

“Hey, Steve?” He asks. Lorelai is yelling at Jess in the street. Steve shifts a little, doesn’t quite look at him but Billy knows he’s got his attention. “Can I ask a question?”

“Sure,” Steve answers. Billy reaches out to tap Steve’s arm.

“Can you pause it?” His heart is hammering, but he doesn’t back down. Knows he needs to know, or he’ll vibrate out of his skin. Steve pauses, scooting back a bit to look Billy in the eye. He looks curious.

“What’s up?” He says. Billy swallows. Steve’s face is illuminated by the TV, and he’s beautiful. Billy can feel it in his belly when he looks at him, thinks he might choke on it.

“Robin said,” he swallows hard. Takes a deep breath. Knows he’ll get this out if it kills him. “Robin said, um, she thought—“

Steve waits patiently, watching him with big brown eyes to rival Bambi’s, his hair flopped over his forehead in a way that kinda makes Billy want to die.

“Robin said she thought you might like me,” he finally gets out, “like, that you wanted to date me.”

He knows his voice is rough and low, betrays his nervousness. Steve goes still next to him, one arm propped against the back of the couch to hold up his head, his knees folded in front of him. Billy waits, wills himself not to look away. Finally, Steve takes a deep breath, a flush painted high on his cheekbones.

“How would you feel if I did?” He asks. He sounds cautious, a little shaky. Like he’s holding tight to control. Billy’s throat clicks when he swallows.

“I think I’d like it,” he answers. His whole body feels too hot, and he’s glad not to be under the blanket. Doesn’t have to look down to know his hands are shaking. Steve shifts, his arm falling to rest gently on the couch. He picks at a stray thread. 

“You would, huh?” Steve’s voice sounds a little awed, the corners of his mouth ticked up like he’s holding back a smile. Billy wants to pinch himself, he’s not sure he’s not dreaming. 

“Yea,” he breathes. He doesn’t want to move, in case the moment shatters. Steve leans up a little onto his knees, scoots closer. 

“And,” Steve whispers, “if I kissed you?”

Billy’s heart catches in his throat, stopping his breath. His chest is hot and tight; he balls up his fists on his thighs, doesn’t want to lurch out and drag Steve in if he’s not serious.

“I’d be fine with that,” he can barely hear his own voice. The room is so dark, the air heavy. He can’t move his eyes away from Steve’s face as it comes closer.

Steve brings a hand up to cup Billy’s neck, his thumb stroking the baby hairs that live behind his ear. He’s a hairsbreadth away when he stops, tiny puffs of air warming Billy’s mouth.

“Hold still,” Steve tells him. Then he closes the distance.

His lips are soft, just like all of Steve, and Billy can’t breathe. Feels frozen as Steve’s mouth moves gently over his own. Steve pulls back just a tiny bit, and Billy sucks in a breath, then leans forward again like he can’t stop himself. The kisses are chaste, just a tiny pressure traded back and forth, but Billy feels buoyant, can’t feel his toes. He brings a hand up to clutch at Steve’s sleeve as Steve leans more heavily against him.

Steve’s other hand comes up to cup the other side of Billy’s neck, and Billy feels himself drag Steve closer before he knows what he’s doing. He feels light headed, has to pull away to suck in a breath and change the angle. Steve’s knee plants itself on the other side of Billy’s hip, straddling him but not touching down. Billy brings up another hand, pushing it up under Steve’s sweater over his hip, feels dizzy when he touches smooth skin.

Steve’s tongue touches Billy’s mouth, not entering yet. He seems like he’s waiting for permission, and Billy wants to give it to him. Wants to give him everything. Has never felt this good, doesn’t want it to ever end. The next time Steve’s tongue peeks out, Billy parts his lips, lets him in. Steve makes a little noise in his throat, high and breathy, like a whine. Billy feels powerful, in control. Grips his hand harder into the meat of Steve’s side.

Steve pulls back. Asks breathlessly, “is this okay? I don’t want go too fast if that’s not what you want.”

“It’s fine,” Billy assures him, leans up to get his mouth on Steve’s again, “it’s not too fast, I’ve been waiting forever.”

Steve makes another noise, crushes his mouth over Billy’s harder than before. Billy feels brave, loves knowing he’s wanted. He lets Steve lick into his mouth again, can’t help his own little noise when their tongues touch, the lightheaded feeling returning. Steve pulls his mouth away but doesn’t go far, just presses kisses to Billy’s jaw, scrapes his teeth along the bone, drags his mouth to suck hard at the side of Billy’s neck. Billy groans, can’t help himself. He’s getting hard, can’t remember the last time he felt like this.

Steve leans back again when he gets to the collar of Billy’s sweatshirt, looks down at Billy questioningly. Billy doesn’t think about it too hard, just lets go of Steve and pulls both his shirts off in one go. His hair is falling out of its bun, so he pulls the hair tie off and tosses it somewhere. Steve digs his hands into Billy’s hair, scratches over his scalp. Presses a kiss to the corner of Billy’s mouth.

“You’re a vision,” he whispers, and Billy’s heart thunders hard. Steve pulls off his own sweater, leans up to press his bare chest to Billy’s.

The movement brings Steve’s hard cock in contact with Billy’s stomach, and Billy is suddenly overwhelmed. Feels like he could panic, his breath getting stuck as he heaves in a breath.

“Billy?” Steve sounds worried. Billy grabs his head, drags him forward and slots his lips over Steve’s again. Doesn’t want to feel bad here, wants to feel every part of Steve and feel good. Thinks maybe he deserves this. Steve responds easily, sliding his tongue past Billy’s lips again, mapping every corner of his mouth. 

Steve’s hands drag over Billy’s chest, leave a hot brand in their wake, every inch of his skin tingling. Billy brings his own hands up, wants to touch Steve too. Wants to feel him shake against him. Doesn’t think too hard, drags Steve’s hips down to meet his own.

The shock that goes through him when they connect feels better than anything he’s ever done. He has to pull his mouth off of Steve’s to suck in a breath, gripping him hard by the hips while Steve pants into Billy’s mouth. Billy’s hips move without instruction, some primal dance he already knows the moves to. Steve grinds against him, tucks his face into Billy’s neck to keep mouthing at him. Billy feels hot all over, feels trapped in his pants.

“Billy, can I—“ Steve cuts off, groaning into Billy’s neck, bowing a little and gripping him tight in his hair, “Can I touch—please, I want to—“

Billy’s nodding, barely know’s what Steve’s asking but thinks he’d probably say yes to anything Steve asked right now. Steve leans back, scrambling to get at Billy’s pants. Billy bats his hands away, undoes the button himself and moves Steve off his lap so he can shimmy out of them. He can see Steve doing the same next to him. 

Their pants hit the floor at the same time, and before Billy knows it he’s being pushed back to lay on the couch, Steve stretched over him. He takes it back, this is the best feeling ever. Steve’s bare cock touches his, hard and hot and a little silky, and Billy’s eyes roll back. He doesn’t recognize the noise that comes out of him. Feels Steve roll his body against his own.

Steve kisses him deeply while he moves, his hand dragging down Billy’s thigh, propped up around Steve’s hip. Billy gets a hand in Steve’s hair, grabs it tight and holds on for dear life. Steve lets go of his leg, creeps his hand into Billy’s inner thigh and stops just short of coming home.

“Can I?” He breathes. He looks like he’s drowning a little, and Billy feels so in control. He nods, can’t help but watch as Steve wraps a long-fingered hand around him. He feels his jaw drop. 

Steve presses close to him, keeps a firm hand around him as he strokes, rolling his hips in the crease of Billy’s thigh as he moves. He presses open-mouthed kisses to Billy’s neck, and Billy feels hot hot hot, his skin two seconds from bursting and spilling him out. Billy chokes and groans when Steve drags his teeth across his skin, gives him a squeeze. He can feel it building in the base of his spine, knows he won’t last a whole lot longer. He drags Steve up by the hair, kisses him through it, sucks in deep breaths as he finally comes apart under Steve.

He feels like he’s floating, can barely feel Steve’s own come splatter over his stomach when he comes a few seconds later. Steve leaves his face in Billy’s neck while they come back down, their breaths returning to normal.

After a while, Steve pulls his face out of Billy’s neck, drags a careful thumb under his eye as he looks down at him.

“You’re crying,” he whispers. Billy feels surprised, has to lift a hand to touch his face. His fingers come away wet.

“Oh,” he murmurs. Steve looks worried.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Billy doesn’t know how to find the right words, struggles for a minute.

“I have never been more okay,” he finally answers. It seems like the right thing to say. Steve beams down at him, leans over to press a tiny kiss to Billy’s mouth.

“I’m glad,” Steve says. Billy thinks he could stay here forever. “Well we should probably shower, at least. Jonathan will be home eventually.”

Billy squints at him. “Did I say that out loud?”

He can feel it when Steve laughs. “Yea. It’s cute though.”

Billy knows he’s flushing, just turns his head to tuck his face against Steve’s. Breathes deep to smell sweat and shampoo. Feels content.


	5. Chapter 5

Max is sixteen when she goes to Chicago for the first time. She hasn’t seen her brother outside of a tiny screen in years, and she misses him. She understands why. She was there when Hopper served the restraining order, just about bursting with pride, knowing her brother would finally be able to get some peace.

But it’s been years, and she’s beyond excited to be making her way out to stay with him. She takes the bus, sits somewhere in the middle and listens to music too loud the whole way. Tries not to be too nervous. 

Billy’s waiting for her when she climbs off, his hair golden in the sunlight and pulled back in a messy bun. He has an earring—that’s new. He’s smiling at her, and he steps forward to catch her in a tight hug. Max clings to him, wills herself not to cry. Doesn’t quite succeed. 

He leans back, tugs a lock of her hair. 

“I like it shorter,” he tells her. He’s still smiling. 

“I like the earring,” she tells him. Can’t help it, dives back in for another squeeze.

He keeps his arm around her the whole way to the car, just listens as she talks about her school and her life. She feels buoyant. He tells her about work as he drives, leading her deeper into the city. She stares out the window the whole way, a little in awe. 

When they reach his apartment, he takes her bags and wraps an arm around her shoulders again. They have to take the stairs—the elevator’s broken. He unlocks the door and calls out to the apartment. Max feels a smile split her face when Steve comes out of the kitchen grinning.

“Max!” He exclaims, “I’m so glad you’re here, he hasn't shut up about this for weeks.”

Billy’s ears are red. “I can’t be excited to see my sister?”

“Of course you can,” Steve’s eyes are soft when he looks at Max’s brother, and Max feels warm.

They move around each other smoothly, like a dance. Max can’t help watching them. Billy sticks his finger in a pot Steve’s been stirring, tastes it with a smirk, yelps playfully when Steve smacks him. He gets out the plates without being asked, just sets the table, telling Max about one of the other tenants who loses their dog almost every week. Steve nudges at him as he serves, but Billy doesn’t move out of the way, just smiles down at Steve like he’s never seen anything better. 

Max never wants to leave.

They watch a movie after dinner, then Billy shows her the guest room. He perches on the edge of the bed while she pulls her clothes out of her bag to put in her dresser. 

“You look happy,” she tells him. He flushes a little.

“I am,” he says. He smiles down at his bare arms, picks at the hem of his shorts. 

“I’m glad you got out,” she whispers, “I’m just sorry it wasn’t sooner.”

Billy looks up at her, sighs, then pats the bed next to him. She sits, feeling a little fragile.

“Max,” he starts, his voice equally quiet, “what I went through wasn’t fair, but it wasn’t your fault. You were the only thing anchoring me when I was in that house. And I’m out now, I have a life with someone I love, and I’m _happy_. I don’t think about Neil or any of that stuff. It’s not worth it. My life is here, now, with Steve. And it’s good.”

She leans her head on his shoulder. “I’m still sorry.”

“I appreciate that,” he tells her, wrapping an arm around her and squeezing. They’re quiet for a moment. She listens to him breathe, solid against her side. 

Finally, Billy breaks the silence again. “He doesn’t hurt you, does he?”

Max shakes her head. “No, never.”

“Good,” he passes a hand down her arm, soothing, “if he ever does, you tell me. I have friends in high places now, I’ll make sure he never sees the light of day again.”

“I know you will,” she says. Feels protected. Wraps her arms around his waist and holds on.

—

Saturday dawns bright and warm, early June. She lets Steve make her breakfast, eats at the table with him until Billy comes stumbling out of the bedroom. He presses a kiss to Max’s head as he passes, leans down to press a kiss to Steve’s mouth too. 

After breakfast, she escapes to get dressed. She throws on the only rainbow shirt she has, tie dye, and a pair of shorts. When she comes into the living room, Steve’s holding Billy’s face still as he drags a stick of rainbow paint across his cheek. Max grins.

“Hey can you do me too?” She asks brightly. Steve smiles over at her, his cheeks bunching under the bi colors he has painted on both sides.

“Sure, come here,” he pats Billy’s cheek gently, turns to her. The paint is sticky on her face, drags a little. “There, beautiful.”

—

It’s loud. That’s the first thing Max notices. Billy has a hand gripped tight in the back of her shirt, making sure they don’t get separated. The crush of people is overwhelming, so many colors and sounds. She has to step sideways to avoid a puddle on the ground, stumbling into Billy’s side. He catches her easily, squeezing and setting her back upright. She turns to look at him. He’s holding Steve’s hand.

“I’ve never seen so many people!” She has to shout a little to be heard. He grins at her.

“Cool, huh?” He wraps a hand in her shirt again. “Stay close.”

They find a place to plant themselves, the sun beating down hard the longer they stand there watching floats. She sees Steve and Billy kissing more than once, but she doesn’t comment on it, too distracted by all the half naked people dancing in leather.

She’s exhausted by the time they leave. She kinda wants to ask Billy to carry her, thinks he would. As it is, she leans on him heavily as they stand in the packed train car, letting him support her weight.

The three of them collapse on the couch when they get home. Max thinks she might fall asleep where she is. She feels Billy move, struggles to look up at him with heavy eyes.

“You wanna go to bed?” He whispers. His paint is smudged, his hair a mess. She probably doesn’t look much better.

“Yea,” she croaks. Feels small. Reaches her arms out in a silent question. He rolls his eyes, a tiny smile on his face. He lifts her easily, drops her on the bed and goes to find a rag to wash her face.

She falls asleep quickly. Doesn’t wake when Billy presses a kiss to her hair and turns out the light.

Billy goes back into the other room. Steve’s still on the couch, messing with his phone. Billy slumps next to him, plastering his whole side against him. Steve wraps an arm around Billy’s, squeezes tight. 

“She’s out,” Billy says. Steve hums. Presses a kiss to Billy’s shoulder.

“It’s nice having her here,” Steve murmurs. Billy leans his head against Steve’s. “We should do it again sometime. For real.”

“What do you mean?” Billy asks. He thinks he’s falling asleep. Steve’s quiet. Billy nudges him, tries to prompt a response.

“I mean,” Steve’s voice is soft, “We should have a kid.”

Billy sits up, suddenly awake, turns to look at Steve. “Seriously.”

Steve reaches out to touch the side of Billy’s face. “Yea. Not _now_, obviously. But at some point.”

“Hm,” Billy leans back down, wraps an arm around Steve’s waist and tucks his face into Steve’s neck, “I could be into that.”

He doesn’t have to look at Steve to know he’s smiling. 


End file.
